


In Parts and Pieces

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Arranged Marriage, Banshee Lydia Martin, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Derek is secretly the sweetest cupcake, F/M, Good Peter Hale, Orphan Stiles Stilinski, POV Multiple, Reproductive health, Single Parent Derek Hale, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “I see,” he says softly. There’s a long silence then, where Peter stares at nothing and Stiles mostly manages to release her death-grip on the no-doubt expensive chair she’s sitting in. Just as the quiet becomes unbearable, he speaks again. “You need the protection of a pack, and our help to access the training you need to survive.”Having it stated so baldly has her suppressing knee-jerk sarcasm and the urge to walk away. But now isn’t the time to quibble over semantics, so she nods curtly. “In a nutshell.”





	1. I can't go back

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been rolling around in my brain for over a year, and has been enabled shamelessly by Triangulum, DenaCeleste, and Bunnywest. Bunny is the main reason this is flowing the way it is, so I'm gonna go ahead and give her like 60% of the blame for this. Thanks to BelleAmante for helping me finally settle on a title. 
> 
> Keep an eye on the rating and tags, as they will be updated as the fic gets written. Once I know what this contains, exactly, I'll make sure you do, too. 
> 
> Happy Friday!

 

Stiles sits on the bus station bench at the end of the street long after dark has fallen. She knows it’s not really safe, but then, she doesn’t know what “safe” means anymore. Safe was her mom braiding her hair before the disease stole the knowledge from her fingers, was her dad’s hot chocolate on sleepless nights and the smell of instant station coffee.

She hasn’t had safe in nearly three years. She doesn’t know what she’d do with it if she had it.

But it’s still what she’d gotten off the bus to find. It’s what she travelled here for. What she gave up her one-room apartment an hour north of here for. What she’s starting to think may have been a mistake to chase after.

She swallows, stares down the street, and thinks about it. Thinks about going to the nearest 24-hour diner or coffee shop and hanging around there until the next county bus comes through to take her back to where she came from. Or somewhere completely different, maybe. She could do that. Get on the bus, sleep for a while, get off at whatever stop she wakes up at. Start over wherever that ends up being, as anonymous as possible.

It’s an option. She could take it. Her dad taught her how to go off the grid, even if she’s never really had to put it into practise. She doesn’t _have_ to do what she came here for.

But as the lighted windows of the Hale house fuzz in and out of perspective, she knows she won’t get back on the bus. Not without trying, at least. Coming this far only to turn back would be cowardice, and John Stilinski’s daughter was a lot of things, but a coward isn’t one of them.

She has to swallow down the tears that well up in response. She doesn’t know why she’s crying, exactly, only that once she stops holding onto the possibility of running away, they start prickling her eyes. Maybe it’s the thought of what her dad would say. Maybe she just misses him.

Maybe it’s because, decision made, being here feels so much scarier.

She spends a few minutes calming herself down and psyching herself up. Wiping her eyes and drinking some water, touching her dad’s badge in her front pocket for luck. And then she counts down from ten, and gets up.

Stepping onto the path to the Hales’ front door feels like walking to the gallows. It’s hard to make herself leave the false security of the street lights and head down the gravel path. They’re a little off the beaten track, here, but not so far that the lighted front window can’t be seen from the road. It’s probably a quarter mile, if that. It feels like it takes an hour before she’s climbing the porch steps.

She taps gently on the front door, knowing that the occupants will have no trouble hearing it. The strap of her duffel bag cuts into her palm as she clutches it, waiting for someone to answer. She doesn’t know who it’ll be, has only ever heard about the Hales, never seen them, but she’s a little thrown when a tall, imposing man with heavy scruff and an intense scowl answers the door.

She swallows, and he huffs. “Yes?”

His voice is—softer, than she’d expected. From the sheer size of him, she’d expected something deeper. She gives herself a little shake. “I need Alpha Hale’s help,” she whispers.

He stares at her for a moment, eyes comically wide, then he grips her arm before she can flinch away and hauls her inside. “What do you know?” he growls, eyes flashing and teeth elongating.

Her heart stutters into a lopsided sprint, and she thinks, _Sorry, Dad. I’ll see you soon._

Before the angry werewolf can reunite her with her parents, a sharp, commanding voice interrupts. “What the hell are you doing?”

He lets her go, and Stiles scuttles backwards. He’s still between her and the door, but she’s not above going out a window if she has to. The broken glass will be a bitch, but her insides will still be on the inside, so. Before she manages to plan her escape, a manicured hand plants itself on the werewolf’s massive chest, shoving him further away from her, and bringing a petite redhead into view.

“She showed up asking for the Alpha,” he mutters, still glaring at her over his packmate’s head.

At that, the tiny woman turns around, and she looks to be about Stiles’s age, give or take. Her gaze is assessing, but not hostile, which is an improvement. “Why are you here?” she asks.

Stiles licks her lips, eyes darting to the large, unfriendly man behind her. “I need Alpha Hale’s help,” she repeats.

The redhead nods. “Follow me. Derek, you stay here.”

The werewolf—Derek?—grumbles, but stays put, and Stiles doesn’t take her eyes off him as she follows the other woman down the hall. Until they turn the corner, anyway, and he can’t see her anymore.

“Sorry about that, Derek . . . has some issues.”

At that, Stiles’s head whips around and she stares at the other woman, who stops in front of a nondescript door. She doesn’t know how to ask, and is more than a little afraid of the answer, but she needs to know, so she jerks her head in the direction they just came. “Is your Alpha going to be like . . .?”

The short woman shakes her head. “No. Peter’s dangerous, but he won’t be outright violent with you. Not unless you’re here to make an assassination attempt.”

Her heartbeat speeds at the thought. “I’m not, I promise.”

For some reason, that makes the redhead give a half-smile. “I know, or you would never have made it this far.”

Stiles makes a confused noise, and the woman tips her head. For a brief moment, it’s like looking at a double-exposed photo—underneath the red curls and freckled complexion are straight white locks, hollow eyes and dark spider-veins crawling across corpse-pale skin. She sucks in a breath. The knowledge hits her like a truck. “You’re a banshee.”

The banshee looks at her sharply, and then nods. “Most people wouldn’t recognize me at a glance. Who are you?”

She huffs an almost-laugh. “No one special.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She cracks her first smile all day. “Stiles. My name’s Stiles.”

The banshee nods once. “Nice to meet you, Stiles. I’m Lydia.” She looks down as her phone chimes from the pocket of her jeans. Pulling it out, she taps at the screen for a moment. “Peter’s ready for you.”

As Lydia opens the door, Stiles can’t help but mutter, “You’d make a terrifying personal assistant.”

Lydia winks, and then shuts the door behind her. Stiles tries not to feel intimidated by the office, with the floor-to-ceiling books and large desk, but she doesn’t quite manage it. The man behind the desk, the Alpha, doesn’t put her at ease, either.

In fact, his calculated smile makes her feel more on edge. “My lovely Lydia tells me that your name is Stiles, and you’re here asking for help?”

He stands, moving around the desk, and something about him makes her hackles rise. She doesn’t know why, but there’s an insistent voice chanting _threat-threat-threat_ in time with her pulse. “I am, and I did, yeah, but now I’m thinking that was a dumb idea, and that I should get my ass on the next bus out of Beacon County.”

The Alpha pauses in his advance, head cocked as he scents the air. “You’re afraid. Why?”

The only explanation for what comes out of her mouth is that her filter has reached its quota for the night. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m in a soundproofed room with an apex predator after nearly having my soft parts used to decorate your entryway when I had to nerve to show up at your door asking for help.”

The Alpha—Peter—puzzles through that for a moment before he sighs. “Derek?”

She nods, and he sighs again, deeper this time, before sprawling in his chair. “Please, sit,” he waves a hand at the chair across from him. “I can promise more civility than my nephew showed, if nothing else.”

She hesitates, her muscles tight with the need to run, but she’s here, in front of the Alpha. The least she can do is plead her case. She’s already come this far, after all. So she sets her duffel by the door, and moves closer carefully. The Alpha watches her, but doesn’t make any sudden moves. Once she’s seated across from him, she’s not sure how to start.

She spent the entire bus ride here planning what to say, only to wind up tongue-tied.

He dips his chin. “What brings you to me, then, sweetheart? Since you did ask for me by name.”

Weirdly, it’s her irritation at the pet name that loosens her tongue. “I need help, because what I am is rare, and there’s no way to access the information and resources I need without someone to vouch for me. I know you’re looking to expand your pack, and I was hoping that, in exchange for helping me get what I need, I could be an asset to you in the future.”

He smirks at her, and it’s so sharp she half-expects to see fangs flash from under his lips. “You’re clever, I’ll give you that, and I happen to like that in people. But it doesn’t tell me why I should help you, let alone take you into my pack.”

He’s right, and she knew she’d have to actually tell the Alpha what she is to get help, but she’s learned the hard way that those in the know react unpredictably when she coughs up the knowledge. She taps her dad’s badge through her jeans as she sizes him up, weighs whether or not she’ll regret trusting him. _Probably_ , she decides, but it’s not like she’s got a lot of options.

“I’m an untrained Spark.”

She’s watching him closely enough to see the twitch around his eyes. He’s surprised. “Well, I won’t deny you’re rare, but why would you need a werewolf Pack? Not, of course,” he flashes her a polished smile, “that we wouldn’t appreciate having someone of your caliber in our back pocket, but I’ve never heard of a Spark attaching themselves that way.”

She scoffs, staring into her lap. “You wouldn’t, because most Sparks are trained by family. Or sent to a friend of the family. Or a friend of a friend, that sort of thing. We’re independent by nature, because we’re not bound by any rules but our own, which is, ironically, the one that’s fucked me over here.”

“I’m listening.”

She doesn’t look up, and bites back the reflexive _I’m sure you are_. “My mom died when I was eight, before my Spark had even manifested. She never got the chance to train me, to introduce me to her network of people, and my father was never part of that world.”

“Surely he could have at least made introductions for you to your mother’s people?” His eyes are kind as he says it, but she can still see the curiosity on his face.

She shakes her head. “He died a couple days after my eighteenth birthday. I don’t have anyone, don’t know how to use whatever gift it is I have.”

He goes still. “Wait. When you say ‘untrained’, you mean—”

“That I couldn’t so much as levitate a pencil? Yeah.” She laughs, and if it’s bitter, she thinks she’s allowed. “I don’t even have the ability to hide what I am. Can’t even mask my signature.”

The Alpha seems floored. “Why not?”

She loses her patience. “Because no one would _teach me_ ,” she snarls, hands gripping the armrests so tightly her fingertips ache. “I don’t have anyone to assure any potential teacher that I am who I say I am, that I’m not a threat, that I’m even worth the effort of selling a grimoire to, but that won’t stop hunters or the fae from killing me if I’m ever unlucky enough to stumble across them.”

“I see,” he says softly. There’s a long silence then, where Peter stares at nothing and Stiles mostly manages to release her death-grip on the no-doubt expensive chair she’s sitting in. Just as the quiet becomes unbearable, he speaks again. “You need the protection of a pack, and our help to access the training you need to survive.”

Having it stated so baldly has her suppressing knee-jerk sarcasm and the urge to walk away. But now isn’t the time to quibble over semantics, so she nods curtly. “In a nutshell.”

His gaze changes then, and she eyes him like a mouse watches a snake as he gets up and joins her on the other side of the desk. She’s expecting him to demand she bare her throat, submit, let him scent-mark her—anything but what he actually does.

Which is crouch next to her chair and take the hand closest to him in his own. “You’ve had to make the best of a bad situation, darling. But you’re not alone anymore.”

She can’t feel her legs and her chest is tight. “You’ll help me?” she breathes, because she has to double-check, make sure she’s not misunderstanding.

He stands, pulling her to her feet, and holds her gaze as he slowly cups a hand around the back of her neck. “I’ll help you, little one. How, exactly, we’ll work it out, I don’t know yet, and now isn’t the time to discuss terms. Right now, what you need is a shower and somewhere safe to rest. We’ll talk about details tomorrow.”

It’s a relief, but she can’t help suspecting there’s a catch. She decides to go with it, and hope she can get free before the trap—if there is one—springs shut on her. “Thank you for your hospitality, Alpha.”

He smiles, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling, and Stiles sees, for the first time, that he’s shockingly attractive. She doesn’t know how she missed it before. He gives her neck one last small squeeze and steps back, letting her go. “Please, call me Peter, little one. Come with me and I’ll show you to the guestroom.”

She follows him upstairs to a nice, if small, bedroom, done in blue. He gestures to her right after she sets her bag down. “Bathroom’s through there. It’s shared with the next bedroom, so lock both doors. I’ll have my niece leave you something clean to wear for when you’re done.”

She nods dumbly, because what else can she do? He gives her another one of those small, soft smiles, and then leaves—closing the door behind him.

Stiles doesn’t know exactly what to make of the situation she’s gotten herself in. She’s anxious about whatever tomorrow’s going to bring, but the promise of an uninterrupted hot shower, clean clothes, and a comfortable bed win out for now. As she rummages through the duffel for her shower bag, she smells her laundry, and resolves to ask about using their washing machine tomorrow.

For now, there’s a hot shower and sleep calling her name.

 


	2. the little girl's got a grenade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues to be enabled like WHOA by Bunnywest, and also DenaCeleste. We switch it up here into Peter's POV. 
> 
> Happy Friday!

Peter rubs a hand over his face as he closes the guestroom door behind him. He doesn’t know where this little stray came from, but she’s tugging at his heartstrings in a way he can’t afford right now. He needs to sit her down and ask some tough questions, so he can figure out whether the cost-benefit ratio is in their favour—because as much as she might genuinely need help, he can’t, _won’t_ put his Pack in harm’s way. His responsibility is to them, and himself.

And for that, he needs Lydia.

But first, he needs to follow through on his word. He sees Cora coming up the stairs, her expression one of wild disbelief. “I go for a run and come back to news that we’re harbouring a fugitive?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “She’s not a fugitive—that implies someone is looking for her.”

She snorts. “Oh, so no one will notice if she disappears? How conveniently creepy.”

He flashes what she calls his ‘serial killer’ smile. “Isn’t it, though?”

She shakes her head, turning serious. “But, for real—what’s she doing here?”

Peter gives a little shrug. “She needs help, and she’s hoping to make a deal to get it.”

“Uh huh.” Cora’s gaze is shrewd. “What kind of deal is she offering, and are you going to take it?”

“That, I don’t know yet.” She opens her mouth, probably to argue, and he cuts her off. “For now, I’d appreciate it if you could loan her something to sleep in, and a change of clothes for tomorrow. Which is when we’ll get down to business and get answers. Which you, and everyone else, will have as soon as I get them.”

She huffs, but bumps her hip against his as she passes him. He knows she’ll do as he asks.

He pauses at the top of the stairs as he realizes he doesn’t know where Lydia is, at the moment. “Where might I find your lovely wife?”

“Kitchen!”

Peter nods to himself, and heads down. He needs to borrow their (other) resident genius. Unfortunately, he runs into Derek brooding in the hall, and he wonders how he ended up with such a cliché for a nephew.

“Really, Derek? Lurking about in hallways, brow furrowed as you stare in a sullen silence? Are you in a Brontë novel?”

Derek just scowls harder, and Peter sighs, because—just for once—he’d like something involving his nephew to be easy. He gentles his tone. “Out with it, pup.”

Derek sighs, and his arms drop from where they were crossing his chest. “I just—I keep thinking that I’m not—I scared her shitless, because I panicked. If it weren’t for Lydia, I might’ve actually hurt her.”

Peter senses that they’re on fragile ground, but can’t see where the danger lies. “You reacted as if faced with a threat,” he murmurs.

Derek hangs his head, one hand dragging through his hair. “Yeah, and I just—I keep wondering, what if my temper gets the better of me once the baby’s born?”

Ah, there it is. Peter has to fight not to smile. “Honestly, nephew, I think you’re looking at this backwards.” Derek looks up, confusion pulling his eyebrows together. Peter doesn’t resist the urge to reach out and smooth them with his thumb. “You lost control because you want to protect your pup, not the other way around. You won’t be a danger to your own pup.”

Derek rolls his eyes, even as he reeks of relief. “Baby, Peter. I’m going to have a _baby_ , not a puppy.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Cora did have an ankle-chewing phase.” He smirks, remembering the yelps and bellows when she attacked her unsuspecting prey.

Derek sighs, but nods. “So. What are we gonna do about her, then?”

Peter takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “For starters, you’re going to make breakfast tomorrow and apologize. After that? We’ll see.”

Derek gives a curt nod. “Any ideas on what she might like to eat?”

“Not a clue. But she doesn’t strike me as the type of girl to turn down bacon.”

He’s already turned around and heading to kitchen, but he can clearly hear Derek’s exasperated, “You can’t tell food preferences based on looks, Peter!”

He ducks his head to hide his laugh, and finds Lydia sitting at the island with a cup of tea. As soon as he sets foot in the kitchen, she asks, “What are we going to do about the stray?”

Peter sits across from his second, sighing and dragging his hand over his face. “I don’t know, and I can’t be detached about it.”

She nods like she expected that. “Okay. Let’s get you a cup, and we’ll take this back to your office.”

He groans as she gets up and pulls his favourite mug from the cupboard. “Must we? I just sat down.”

Lydia doesn’t turn from where she’s pouring hot water into the cup. “Yes, because this isn’t a conversation you’re going to want anyone overhearing before we’ve made any decisions.”

He takes the mug she hands him, pouting. “I liked you better when you indulged me.”

“No you didn’t.”

He really didn’t, but he only smiles as he walks with her back to his study. Because she is, as ever, correct, and he doesn’t want anyone—especially Stiles—overhearing what he knows is coming. Lydia will be detached as she plays his much-needed devil’s advocate, because as much as he wants to help the girl, his pack can’t afford to have him turn into a bleeding heart.

He sips his tea, and begins. “This first piece of information, I need you to keep to yourself. She was cagey about giving it up, and I understand why.” He pauses, and Lydia nods, which he expected, but he had to be sure. “She’s an orphan without the connections she needs as an untrained Spark to survive. She’d hoped that, by joining a pack, she could have someone vouch for her to receive the training she needs, with the understanding that she would be at our disposal in the future.”

Lydia is silent for a long moment, short nails tapping against the side of her mug. “Peter, that’s . . .”

“I know.”

She shakes her head. “Normally, I would say the first question is whether or not she’s telling the truth, but it’s fair to assume that she is in this case, so—”

“Why?” Peter tilts his head. “I mean, her heartbeat never stuttered, but you usually require more proof than that.”

Lydia dips her chin in acknowledgement. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious from her appearance and travel bag that she’s in a bad spot. But aside from that?” She leans forward, something like awe on her face. “I dropped my glamour—just for a moment—before I let her in here. And she recognized me, Peter. There aren’t many who could do that. Powerful magic users, maybe, another of the fae, or someone trained in what to look for—but it seemed instinctual for her, which is even rarer.”

He hums noncommittedly to hide how intrigued he is by that. There’ll be time to ask Stiles about it later. “So if that’s not the first question, what is?”

“The first question is: what are the risks to helping her? What will it cost us? Because until we know that, there’s no way to judge what we can or can’t do for her.”

“Fair.” He pauses, considering. “She said that she can’t mask her signature yet, which has the potential to attract both fae and hunter attention. Hunters are likely to kill her for what she is, if they knew—and they wouldn’t, not necessarily, not unless they had a skilled magic user of their own—while the fae would, well. There’s no real telling what they might try, but it would absolutely be unpleasant for her, regardless.”

Lydia makes a surprised noise. “The odd thing about that is that neither of those are overwhelming threats to us, are they? The Hunter Tribunal still has jurisdiction over our pack because of the reconciliation efforts with the Argents, who are a powerful enough name in their own right that another hunter coming into the territory would be seen as poaching.”

Peter hums an affirmative, and she continues. “And, well. I walk on the mortal plain, but I’m still fae. If she’s living under my jurisdiction, it would be considered bad manners to take her without my permission, and none of them would risk provoking a banshee. Not when my scream holds more power over them than it does humans.”

“So from the standpoint of safety, she isn’t likely to bring danger to us that we aren’t uniquely qualified to handle.”

Lydia nods. “Exactly. But there’s no telling whether or not she’d be dangerous to us.”

It’s not something he wants to consider, but he has to anyway. “Whatever we decide, we’ll go slow. Give everyone a chance to feel her out. I don’t think she’s a danger to us, but you’re correct that it’s always something worth asking.”

Lydia doesn’t respond to that, but her scent goes buttery-warm with satisfaction. “The real question, then, is whether or not she’s an investment that will pay off. Magical training isn’t a quick process. She won’t be able to ward the manor for at least a year, maybe longer. And there would be absolutely nothing to stop her from abandoning us as soon as she had what she needed.”

Peter has to bite back the urge to defend her—he barely knows Stiles, and this is what he came to Lydia for. “Again, I feel as though getting to know her will answer this.”

Lydia exhales heavily. “Well, yes and no. It’ll answer whether or not she’s the kind of person to cut and run without fulfilling her end of the bargain, but it won’t answer whether or not investing in her abilities will pay dividends for us.”

Peter can’t help it—he rolls his eyes. “She’s a _Spark_ , Lydia. That alone should make the investment worth it.”

She huffs, scent tingeing burnt-wood frustration as she sets her mug down. “Look, I’m not trying to argue you out of helping her. I’m just saying that the terms she stated were the ones that were best for _her_. She gets all the short-term benefits, as well as long-term ones, while we’re investing in her in good faith that we’ll be paid back. Meanwhile, we have no guarantees, and there’d be nothing in it for us in the short-term.” 

Hearing it stings. He needs her level-headed detachment, but it’s still nothing he wants to hear. He wonders if he’s already started thinking of their little stray as his, as pack. “Then what do you propose?”

Her reply is immediate. “Change the terms. Give her what she’s asking for, but stack the deck more in the pack’s favour.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “You already have something in mind, don’t you?” She nods, and he rolls his eyes, waving a hand. “Well don’t leave me in suspense.”

Lydia pauses, the scent of anxiety betraying her composure. “As we’ve been sitting here, it occurs to me that, well. There’s been a lot of talk about expanding our pack, and how to do it.” He nods, and she continues, the scent of anxiety growing stronger. “Derek will be a father soon. Cora and I are waiting, to stagger the babies and to make sure we’re both established and able to care for any children we have. But you—”

He nods, lip curling. “I’ve no plans for reproducing, no.” He has an inkling of where this is going now, and he doesn’t like it.

As if sensing that, Lydia leans forward, her words tumbling out over each other with less than her usual care. “I think you should handfast her.”

“What?” He’s thrown. It isn’t what he thought she’d say.

“Look, we need a way to bind her to the pack, to ensure that she’ll stay after being trained. We also—look, I hate to say it, but she’s.” Lydia pauses, eyebrows lifting. “She’s alone and doesn’t have anyone. If she bonds strongly with a pack member, it’ll help her integrate—give her a point of contact.”

She’s right, but it still strikes him as unnecessarily extreme. “Pretty logic, but it fails to address why I should be the one to marry her.”

She gives him a flat glare that he probably deserves. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I’m married to your niece, that your other niece is engaged, and your nephew’s maxed out his commitment quota for the next five years with the baby?” Her tone gentles. “Look, Derek’s not in a place to be with someone right now. Even if he hadn’t scared her shitless when she got here.”

He nods, conceding defeat and drinks some of his now-lukewarm tea. He thinks about it. “So why a handfasting?”

She releases a breath, and leans back against her chair. “Several reasons. As I said, she needs to bond with someone, and if we take her in, we need to make sure that she’ll stay. Bonding with her Alpha is a good way to do that, and we both know that a sexual relationship between you two would create a strong packbond—one she’d be able to feel even if she wasn’t magic.”

“True. And?”

She shoots him an exasperated look. “ _And_ if you handfast her, you’ll be married, and have conjugal rights. The opportunity to see about becoming a father, and expanding our pack that way. It would be the best possible outcome, really—if she has your child, she _definitely_ won’t leave. But, worst-case scenario? The two of you don’t work out, and you don’t renew your marriage after the year and a day is up. She becomes a packmate, and there’s nothing stopping either of you from seeking out other relationships.”

He sighs. Lydia has, once again, thought of everything. She’s right—it’s a neat solution to their problem, and safeguards the pack without binding either him or Stiles to something they might end up hating. There’s just one little problem.

“I’ll just inform her over breakfast, then, shall I?”

 


	3. begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is getting wildly out of control. I have up to chapter 10 plotted. This is going to become a monster on me, I can feel it. 
> 
> Thanks for Bunnywest for cheering me on. So much of this is your fault. 
> 
> This is late because my internet decided to be an asshole last night. Whoops? Hope you enjoy anyway, and have a good weekend!

 

She wakes up and has to muffle a groan. Her back aches fiercely, from her neck down to her hips. Sitting up, she tries to stretch the tension out, only to realize that most of the pain is from sleeping on a decent mattress—her muscles aren’t clenched tighter than a vice for the first time in months, and she should be grateful, but mostly she just wishes she hadn’t depleted her stash of ibuprofen. She really, really wants some drugs.

But she doesn’t have any, so she curses and hauls ass out of bed, pulling the sheets and blankets into some semblance of “made” before getting ready to deal with what’s coming. She dresses and brushes her hair, wanting to look put together before they see her. She lingers in the bathroom braiding her hair, oddly hesitant to go downstairs. She knows she needs to eat—she hasn’t in at least a day, because the protein bar she had on the bus to Beacon County doesn’t count—but there’s an illusion of peace and safety in the little blue guestroom with its attached bathroom that she doesn’t want to give up.

She knows there isn’t really any privacy—these rooms aren’t soundproofed, so most of the house will already know she’s awake. They can hear her breaths and heartbeat and the flush of the toilet. But no one’s barged in to drag her out yet, and she’s in clean sweats and a tank top that are comfortable, even if they’re not hers, and she doesn’t want to lose that.

But because she’s an actual-facts grownup, she makes sure her things are back in her duffel, then pulls on a hoodie and heads downstairs. She can smell bacon, so she follows the delicious aroma to the kitchen, only taking a wrong turn into one closet on the way. (She’s no werewolf, but she can sniff her way to bacon. All those years trying to keep it away from her da—)

She rounds the corner, and sees a dark-haired woman seated at a marble-topped island, smiling at the back of the broad-shouldered man at the stove. He turns slightly, and she sees that it’s Derek, eyebrows drawing together as he keeps turning. The urge to bolt has her heart beating faster.

But instead of the hostility she got last night, he looks at her with something like concern. “You okay?”

She nods, not trusting her voice. She doesn’t come closer.

His eyebrows scrunch together until they’re touching. “You don’t smell okay.”

Right. She’s going to have to get used to that. She forces a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

The woman turns, looking from her to Derek. “Are you our stray?” she asks, smiling. It’s a nice smile, soft, with dimples.

It makes the urge to bolt that much stronger, because Stiles wonders what she heard about last night. She nods once, eyes darting between Derek and Miss Dimples.

The woman doesn’t seem to notice Stiles’s rudeness, or if she does, she ignores it, getting up and coming over. When she stands, Stiles sees that she’s pregnant—not far along, not in that beach-ball-under-the-shirt kind of way, but that is _definitely_ a baby under there. Of the human kind, not the I-ate-too-much-sushi kind. 

She manages to snap out of it—she needs Adderall, goddamn—when the pregnant lady holds a hand out for her to shake. She grips it gently, and feels calluses slide against her palm.

“I’m Allison.”

 _Also human_ , Stiles thinks. If the handshake wasn’t enough confirmation, the calluses prove it. “I’m Stiles.”

Allison’s dimples deepen. “Nice to meet you. Will you join us for breakfast?”

Stiles really, really doesn’t want to be in the same room as the guy who nearly eviscerated her, let alone eat whatever he’s made, but if she’s going to be part of this pack, she needs to find a way to mend fences. Before she can answer, her stomach growls loudly, and she gets to see Derek make the most ridiculous surprised face she’s ever seen.

She hates to admit that it goes a long way towards convincing her to follow Allison back to the island.

“So, uh. What is there, and is there enough for me to have some?”

For some reason, it makes Derek duck his head and focus on the pan of bacon he’s frying. When he speaks, it’s gruff, but not unkind. “There’s French toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Or, well. There were pancakes, but then my sister happened, so if you want more, let me know and I’ll do another batch.”

That—that is not what she expected, and she’s kind of thrown. “Um, French toast sounds great. Where are the plates?”

Derek flaps a hand at her as he turns the element off. “No, no—you sit, I’ll get it. Just tell me what you want and how much.” He glances at her over his shoulder, and she understands, suddenly, that she’s not the only one feeling unsettled by what happened last night.

Weirdly, knowing that puts her more at ease, and she tells him to load up her plate with French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon, and smiles when Allison passes her the syrup. Once she’s got a plate and mug of coffee, Derek takes a seat next to Allison, wrapping am arm around her shoulders.

It makes her curious, and unfortunately, she’s never been good at keeping a lid on her curiosity, even when she is properly medicated. “So, are you two . . .?”

Allison smiles, and shakes her head, while Derek withdraws his arm. “Yes, it’s his baby. But no, we’re not together.”

“Oh.” Stiles shovels another bite into her mouth to keep from saying anything insensitive.

Allison tilts her head, and leans against Derek, which seems to put him at ease. “It’s complicated.”

She nods. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep.” Because that is a thing she absolutely cannot afford to do right now. Not when she doesn’t know where she stands with the Alpha, what her status to this pack will be if she ends up staying, or even who all her future packmates are, never mind what they might think of her.

Surprisingly, it’s Derek who shakes his head. “No, it’s—I wanted to apologize. For last night.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, drawing it out. It’s not that she wouldn’t like one, but, well. She’s curious about what he’s apologizing for. And why.

“I reacted—badly, when I answered the door to you. And I know it’s no excuse, but my instincts are wreaking havoc on my control right now because of the baby.”

Stiles hums. It makes sense, from what she knows of werewolves in general, and these werewolves in particular. “So you’re not, like—actually pissed about me being here?”

His face is stupidly expressive, his eyes big and somber as he shakes his head again and reaches slowly across the table. “No, not—I really am sorry, Stiles. I never meant to hurt or frighten you. I know what it’s like, to need help, and I just—” he pauses abruptly, and then goes on again like nothing happened. “I’d like to be somebody you can trust, if you think we can get there.”

She stares—at his face, at the outstretched hand, at Allison, who looks back at her without judgement. She doesn’t know why she’s scared to reach out and take that hand, but she is. Maybe it’s because he threatened her just last night, maybe it’s because she’s been touched more in the last 24 hours than in the last three weeks combined, or maybe it’s because taking his hand feels like a commitment she’s not sure she can afford to make. Not when she doesn’t know what the Alpha will do, whether she’ll be allowed to stay, if this pack is her final destination or if she’s going to have to grab her duffel and keep running.

Her hand shakes when she reaches out and brushes her fingertips across his palm. He doesn’t hold her, just lifts his fingers until they’re touching the heel of her hand. She blinks when she sees the veins in his wrist and forearm go black. “Um?”

“You’re in pain.”

Which, yeah, but the ache of too-tight muscles has gotten familiar enough to her over the last year or so that she barely noticed. “Yes?” Although, now that she concentrates, it seems less severe—almost a whisper of what she’s gotten used to.

Derek shrugs one shoulder. “I took it.”

“You . . . took it?” She has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

Allison seems to understand her confusion. “It’s something werewolves can do—take pain. There are limits, but it has to do with their advanced healing. Derek’s been doing it for me since the baby turned my bones to Play-Doh.”

He takes his hand back gently, and smiles at Allison. It transforms his face, and Stiles thinks he’s gonna be the softest of marshmallow dads before memories of her own father choke her.

Derek seems to catch the shift in her mood. “Hey—what’d I do?”

She shakes her head and scrubs at her eyes. “Nothing, it’s just—you’re gonna be a great dad.”

“I keep telling him that, but maybe he’ll believe it coming from you.”

Stiles whips her head around so fast her neck cracks, and she has to suppress a wince. The Alpha—Peter—raises an eyebrow when he hears it. She gives a tiny headshake, and luckily, he doesn’t comment. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.”

He nods. “Good. Then I think it’s time you and I sit down and get to business.”

Stiles stuffs her last bite of bacon into her mouth and grabs her half-full mug of coffee before following Peter down the hall. And then, because she is the queen of filling awkward silences—“Your office?”

He hums an affirmative, but doesn’t say anything else. Stiles chews her bottom lip to keep her flood of questions in—she knows the werewolves can hear everything in the house, so she saves it for the soundproofed office.

But when Peter opens the door, she sees that the banshee—Lydia—is already there. “Oh, um. I can wait?”

It gets her a raised eyebrow from Lydia and a chuckle from Peter as he steps around her to close the door. “Nonsense. Lydia’s just the person we need.”

Logically, she knew she’d have to tell the rest of the pack about what she is if she’s going to get their help, let alone join them. But it still sets her on-edge. She takes a deep breath, nods, and waits for the Alpha and what she assumes is his second to sit.

(And the banshee has to be his second—why else would she have been able to hold Derek back last night? Why else would she be here right now?)

Stiles settles in the remaining seat, doing her best to ignore that her back is to the door. The fact that it’s closed is the only thing that makes it tolerable. “So, um. Where do you wanna start?”

Peter leans back in a comfortable-looking armchair, hands folded across his stomach and legs crossed at the ankle. “I told you that we’d discuss terms today, which is what we’re here for. But Lydia will be your point-person if you decide to stay, which means the two of you need a rapport.”

Stiles nods. It makes sense, even if it doesn’t put her at ease. She turns her attention to the redhead across from her. “So—what do you want to know?”

Lydia hums, tucking her legs under her and propping an arm against the armrest. She looks comfortable there, and it hits Stiles—she probably spends a lot of time in here, if she’s Peter’s second. “Peter gave me the basics last night—that you’re a Spark, and that you need training. Any other personal details you’d like to fill me in on?”

It’s phrased like a question, but Stiles knows better than to think she can refuse. She gulps her coffee to buy herself some time. “Okay, uh. You know my name. I’m twenty, twenty-one next month. I inherited my, uh. My _gift_ from my mother, who died when I was eight. Frontotemporal dementia.”

She looks into her lap, not wanting to see their faces as she explains. “The disease—it’s a little like Alzheimer’s? She forgot things. Me, eventually. She never got the chance to teach me, because there hadn’t been any real sign she’d passed it down until after she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looks up, and sees that Lydia genuinely does look sympathetic. She’s always hated hearing “I’m sorry”, but she knows it’s social convention. So she nods, and goes on. “My father—he was a county sheriff—died a few days after my eighteenth birthday. He wasn’t—he knew, about my mom, but he.” She has to stop, can’t afford to remember how he—she can’t. Not here, not now, not in front of total strangers. She clears her throat. “He wasn’t part of that world, stayed out of it, so he couldn’t vouch for me after she died. And because I don’t even know enough to hide my signature—I was, ah, a bit of a late bloomer?—I’ve been doing what I can to not be found since.”

Lydia nods, and then changes the topic. “So what brought you here, to us?”

Stiles frowns, glancing at Peter. “I thought you said he told y—”

“No, I meant why us, specifically? Surely there are other packs you could have contacted?”

The question catches her off-guard. She doesn’t know how to say this delicately, and she can’t just go ‘fuckit’ and be blunt. Not with the Alpha right here. “I—my dad got pulled in to help work the arson case, back in the day. I thought that, after . . . what happened, you might need new members. I thought I could be useful to you, in a way I probably wouldn’t be to other packs.”

Lydia’s expression is unimpressed, her eyes hard. “What, you thought we’d be so desperate to rebuild, we’d take just anyone?”

It feels like a gut-punch, and Stiles clamps her jaw shut so she doesn’t ask whether or not the clinging aura of death is what drew the banshee to the Hales. She decides to go for something a little subtler. “Maybe you have your wires crossed, banshee, because I’m pretty sure that’s not what I said.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow, but before she can speak, Peter cuts in. “Stiles, I think what the lovely Lydia meant is that it’s—odd, that you should come to us, when other packs would likely jump at the chance to fold you into their ranks.” He gives her another one of those polished smiles that reminds her of predators. “You would be considered something of a catch.”

She shakes her head before he’s finished speaking, before she stops to think about it. “What makes you think they’d believe me, when Sparks are notorious for staying independent?”

At that, Peter looks intrigued, uncrossing his ankles to sit up and lean forward. “Don’t tell me there were others stupid enough to turn you down?”

Stiles gives a tight smile, but doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to.

Lydia scoffs. “So, what? We weren’t even your first choice? You were just desperate enough to hope that we would be, too?”

And that’s her limit, ladies and gentlemen. Stiles sets her mug down and leans forward, elbows braced on her knees. “And how many packs would have taken you, Wailing Woman? How many would have welcomed a dark fae, a living, breathing omen of death, into their midst?” Lydia’s jaw drops slightly, before she presses her lips together. Stiles gives a particularly nasty smile. “That’s what I thought. I can’t change what I am any more than you can.”

Stiles leans back, her spine straight and her chin tipped defiantly. “If you have actual questions, ask them. If you’re just going to sit there and needle me because you think you can, I’m gonna get my shit and go elsewhere.”

She can feel her father shaking his head at her from beyond the grave. He’d tell her to swallow her pride—that getting what she needs to protect herself is more important right now, but she can’t. She won’t be treated as lesser just for being who, _what_ she is. Her mother’s legacy deserves respect, even if Stiles herself may not.

Surprisingly, it’s Peter who speaks, focussing a narrow-eyed look at his second. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

Lydia sighs, resigned. “Fine. But I won’t apologize for wanting to know what kind of person you wanted to bring in.” She turns to Stiles then. “Let’s cut to the chase. You need our help, and training for your gift is only the half of it. You need stability—somewhere safe to call home. The pack is your best bet for that.”

Stiles senses a trap, but the banshee—however vicious—isn’t wrong. “True,” she says slowly.

Lydia nods, and continues. “But the issue that we’re the ones shouldering all the cost, here. If we bring you in, set you up with teachers and resources, there’s nothing stopping you from deciding to cut and run once you get what you need. There’s nothing guaranteeing your loyalty, or that you’ll actually use your gift for us once you’re trained.”

Stiles opens her mouth—because holy fuck, what kind of asshole do they think she is?—but the hand Lydia holds up forestalls her protest. “I’m not saying I think you’ll do those things. But we have no guarantee you won’t, because you’re staying human.” Stiles nods her agreement—like hell is she taking the Bite—and Lydia goes on. “The Alpha-beta bond would offer you the stability and incentive to stay, and us the reassurance that you’re dedicated to the pack, but there’s no point in offering you the Bite, because you’d probably lose your Spark if you took it. So as things are, we’re shouldering the cost to train you and protect you until you can protect yourself, without the security of an Alpha-beta bond, or the benefit of long-term acquaintanceship, or even being referred to us by a trusted contact. That’s a lot to ask on faith, especially of a pack as small as ours.”

She swallows, and her mouth tastes bitter and metallic. “I understand.”

“We’re not telling you ‘no’, little one,” Peter murmurs. “Just that your offer, as it was, is one we can’t afford to accept.”

Lydia waves a hand. “What he’s not saying is that, while we’re stable, we’re small. We’re trying to rebuild, and while a long-term investment for a future emissary—”

Stiles’s breath catches, because that wasn’t something she’d even thought of. But a position as emissary would make her indispensable.

“—would be smart, we need some short-term gain from you. Or at the very least, a guarantee that you’ll stay to fulfill your end of the deal.”

Stiles understands suddenly that she’s being walked through the reasoning to a particular conclusion, and her heart starts beating double-time. “Where are you going with this?”

Lydia gives a strange smile. “I want you to handfast to Peter.”

“You want me to what?” Stiles doesn’t know what that means.

Peter reaches out and takes her hand. “It’s a Celtic marriage ritual.”

She’s speechless for a moment, gaze darting between them. “You want me to marry into the pack?”

Peter’s thumb smooths over the splits in her knuckles. She punched a drunk asshole last week, and it hasn’t completely healed yet. It sends tingles up her arm. “In a manner of speaking. A handfasting is a marriage of a year and a day, after which, the participants can choose whether to renew the marriage with a second handfasting, use another, more permanent, marriage ritual, or dissolve the union entirely.”

Hearing that—that it wouldn’t be forever, that there’s an out, she’d really only be giving up a year of her life—lets her breathe a little easier. It’s still scary, but it’s no longer at mind-numbing terror levels. She looks into Peter’s clear blue eyes, and asks, “Okay, so—what would it mean? To handfast to you?”

 

***

 

She folds her laundry mechanically, mind spinning. Marriage. They want her to marry the Alpha—and it’d be a real marriage, even if though it’ll be legitimized through magic rather than paperwork.

She can understand the reasoning on their end, can see how a relationship with the only available packmate would be a guarantee against her deciding to cut and run, and she’d admire the neatness of the solution if she wasn’t trying to wrap her brain around the idea of getting married. She’s only twenty! She’s not adult enough for marriage!

Never mind that it would give the Alpha conjugal rights, and they’d want to see if she can get knocked up. She’s definitely not grown-up enough to have a kid. She kinda wants to say “no” based on that alone, but. The kicker is that Lydia isn’t wrong.

This pack really is her best bet at having a future. So she thinks about it. Tries to remember when she last had a period, and realizes with a distant sort of relief that it’s been at least six months. It’ll take a while, before she starts bleeding again, and even longer before she’ll be regular enough to be fertile. And then there’s her ADHD meds. She can probably get through a year without getting pregnant. Maybe.

Which just leaves the question of what will happen to her if she doesn’t. In some ways, that’s more frightening to think about, because she just . . . doesn’t know, and she doesn’t want to ask. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this issue has come up several times now in the comment section, please allow me to state, for the record and any newcomers: the tags "Coercion", "Manipulation", "Non-Con Elements", "Consent Issues" "Forced Prostitution", "Forced Pregnancy", "Forced Bonding" / "Forced Marriage" and the like are absent from this fic. There is a good reason for that--namely, that these elements aren't present. 
> 
> Stiles is an unreliable narrator, limited by her own grief-and-paranoia-fuelled perspective, and is missing key pieces of information. Thus, she's running on assumptions. She is deliberately choosing not to seek clarification about her concerns because she wants to preserve plausible deniability as a sort of "Get Out Of Jail Free" card. 
> 
> I didn't want to post what might be seen as spoilers, but I would prefer to spend my time actually writing this story as opposed to addressing this issue over and over in the comment section, so I hope that clears up any confusion.


	4. half-alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues to be cheered on and made possible by my enablers, chief among whom is Bunnywest, but which also include DenaCeleste, red_crate, and Sericea. 
> 
> It's a little late, but Happy Friday, everyone!

 

Peter rubs his eyes as his office door clicks shut. “That went well,” he mutters.

Lydia hums thoughtfully. “I think it did, actually.”

Peter looks at her, eyebrows raised. “How, exactly, was _that_ ,” he gestures towards the door, “anything like successful? I know you can’t smell it, but surely you could _see_ the anxiety and fear rolling off her.”

He hasn’t finished speaking before she’s shaking her head. “Of course she was, but you should’ve expected that. _Think_ , Peter! She’s alone in a world where she knows there are people who want her dead. She’s had to rely on herself for the last three years, because she didn’t have anyone else. And now, here we are, presenting her an offer she can’t afford to refuse, but comes with the condition of being chained down.”

He sees her point, but rolls his eyes anyway. “Thank you, Lydia, truly. I’ve always wanted to be seen as the proverbial ball and chain.”

She snorts, but it’s fond. “She’s survived by always having one foot out the door, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Her whole life is in a duffel bag. Having to agree to put down roots somewhere, to stay in one place—I’m sure it’s appealing, but it has to be scary, too.”

Peter closes his eyes, heart lurching awkwardly in his chest at the little one’s predicament. He scrubs a hand over his face. “I want to take her under my wing, so badly. I’d wonder what’s wrong with me, except I know it’s that raising my niece and nephew made me soft.” He sighs dramatically, waving an arm. “Gone is my ruthless youth. I’ve been declawed.”

As he’d hoped, Lydia bursts into a fit of unladylike cackling. “Oh my god,” she wheezes, “no one who’s ever had to deal with you would ever say that.”

“Excellent! My reputation is still intact. If that changes, I’ll know who to blame.” He pretends to glare at her, which causes another bout of giggling. Once they’ve wound down, he drops the theatrics. “Now, stop procrastinating and go work on your dissertation”—he ignores her indignant huff at the order—“and let my darling niece know that she has a potential packmate to vet.”

Lydia inhales sharply. “We’re moving ahead, then?”

Peter shrugs. “Might as well. She came to us expressing a desire to join the pack, and we’ve offered her a way to do that. Until she gives us an explicit ‘no’, we should move forward as if she’s a packmate-to-be, and that means that the rest of the pack needs to decide whether they think she’s a good fit for us.”

Lydia nods, expression solemn. “It’s the smart way to do it. And, for what it’s worth? I think she will be.”

It’s absolutely what he wants to hear, and he’s so unaccustomed to hearing that from her that he pauses, eyes narrowed. “You barely know her,” he points out. “How could you have an opinion already?”

She turns away from him, quiet for a long moment as she stares sightlessly. “It’s nothing I can put into words, but I just . . . have a feeling about her. She’s right for us.”

Peter doesn’t respond to that, _can’t_. It isn’t often that Lydia willingly speaks of the sixth sense her heritage gives her. She prefers facts and numbers, things that are tangible and measurable to the ephemeral and ever-changing nature of the whispers she hears every waking moment, and tries to ignore. The fact that she’s giving voice to the shifts of fate she’s still learning to understand is powerful in and of itself. So he nods in thanks, and lets her leave his office, retreating to the comfort of academia.

It takes some time before he’s ready to find Derek and share the news. He finds his nephew in the living room, sitting on the floor at their Argent’s feet, clicking away on his laptop as she reads, one hand idly carding through his hair. Peter leans in the doorway for a moment, watching. The soft domesticity of it makes his chest ache. Seeing and smelling Derek’s contentment and affection isn’t something he ever thought he’d have. Not when his nephew was so angry and broken after the fire. The fact that he has a pup on the way makes Peter unspeakably proud of how far he’s come.

Allison smiles and nods when she sees him. “Hey, what’s up?”

At the sound of her voice, Derek looks up absently. His gaze sharpens, focussing when he spots Peter. “Everything okay?”

“Of course.” He steps forward, quick to reassure his most mercurial beta. “I just wanted to let you know that Stiles is considering an offer to join our pack, so we should treat this as the probationary period. I want the both of you to try and get to know her, let me know if you think she’ll be a good fit or not.”

Derek relaxes, leaning against Allison’s recliner. “Okay. I’ll see if she needs anything this week.”

Allison hums. “I’ll spend some time with her too, let you know what I think.”

Peter nods, and leaves them be. He knows they’ll do as he asked, and as much as he might’ve once abhorred the idea of listening to an Argent, he knows that this one is worth it. She’s proved that her judgement is both fair and insightful.

He still doesn’t like it. But he knows that’s down to his—well-earned—prejudices against her family rather than the young woman herself. And he won’t take that out on her—not when she’s doing more than her part to make amends. To ensure that the prejudices on both sides become a thing of the past.

But it’s still hard, so he’s earned some of the good tea that Lydia thinks she can hide from him. Before he reaches the kitchen, however, he hears something that makes him pause.

“No, I understand that, I’m asking if there’s an opening at—” Stiles pauses, and Peter can hear a tinny voice, but isn’t close enough to make out what they’re saying. Whatever it is, her heart—already fast enough to make him think of hummingbirds—starts to sprint. “What? You realize that’s insane, right? If I need a PCP, how am I supposed to get a referral for a PCP?”

Peter quickens his step, coming around the corner and into view in time to see Stiles’s jaw clench. “I understand,” she says coldly, before hanging up.

He heard enough to guess at what’s going on, but he feigns ignorance. Making assumptions and revealing his eavesdropping won’t get him into her good books. “Doctor trouble?”

She snorts, tapping at her cellphone. “Only always.”

“Oh?” He fills the kettle and sets it to boil before digging out the tea Lydia thinks he can’t smell past the jars of cinnamon and nutmeg. “Anything I can help with?”

She’s silent for a long moment. He doesn’t rush her, focussing on spooning loose leaf into a diffuser. His patience pays off. “I’ve been calling around, trying to get into a local clinic or family doctor’s office, but I haven’t had much luck. Almost everywhere has a massive waitlist, and the few I could’ve bribed, I don’t have the funds for, because California.”

At that, he can’t help giving her a look. “You bribe many medical professionals?”

She gives a tight-lipped smile. “Depends who’s asking,” she replies breezily. She drops the smile and goes on. “But unfortunately, I need my meds, and it’s not looking like I’m going to be able to get them anytime soon, so, sorry in advance.”

That earns her his full attention. Settling across from her at the island, he ignores the kettle. “Medication?”

She shrugs, discomfort flashing through her body language and scent. “I, uh. Have ADHD? I’ve been running low on my meds for a while, and I was rationing them, but. I’m out, and I’d really rather not go without them for too long, hence dealing with doctors.”

Relieved that it’s not life-sustaining medication she’s trying to do without, Peter can’t help the smile tugging at his lips as he pulls out his phone and hits speed dial. When it connects, he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hello, Marin? I need to book an emergency appointment.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Stiles’s eyes have gone wide. “ _Peter. I have a spot tomorrow afternoon. Who am I seeing, and how urgent is it?_ ”

He looks at Stiles, whose face has gone from shocked to anxious, and makes a snap decision. “I’m going to put you on speaker, hold on.” With a tap of the screen, he adjusts the settings, and sets his phone on the island between them. “Marin, this is Stiles. She’s new to Beacon Hills. She might end up with us, but in the meantime, she needs medical care.”

“ _Hello, Stiles. Can you tell me why you need to see me?_ ”

Her eyes flick to Peter. He gets up and pours hot water into his mug as she answers. “I’m 20, have probably been healthier, and I’m out of my ADHD meds. I was calling offices in the area, trying to find a clinic that would see me when Peter decided to call you.”

“ _Alright. So that you know, I’m a local physician and a druid. I look after the pack, so I can add you to my patient base if you like_.”

The scent of Stiles’s relief is overwhelming. He hadn’t realized this was bothering her so much. “I’d appreciate that.”

“ _Excellent. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at one o’clock. Bring your medical files if you have them, a list of your medications, and be prepared for me to order tests_.”

Peter hears her heartbeat stutter and lurch, and retakes his seat across from her, searching her face. “You don’t have to do that, Doctor. I’m sure I’m fine. I’m just out of my meds.”

“ _If that’s so, then this lets me establish a baseline_.”

“But—”

“ _I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles_.”

Marin hangs up, and Peter doesn’t understand why Stiles looks like she’s about to faint. “What’s wrong, little one?”

She closes her eyes, slumping in defeat. Peter hates it. “I can’t afford this. As it is, I’ll be hard-pressed to cover the visit and my meds, but tests, too? I’m screwed.”

It seems there’s no end of ways for this little urchin to break his heart. He reaches across the island to take her hand. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

She looks at him, and he can identify the second she understands. “You’re not actually—”

“Going to take care of the homeless orphan in distress who sought sanctuary with my pack? I don’t know why you thought anything else.”

She grits her teeth for a moment before deliberately unclenching. “While I appreciate the hospitality, Alpha Hale—”

“—call me Peter.”

“—I wouldn’t feel right accepting your charity.”

He’s torn between exasperation and amusement. He doesn’t understand how someone who seems so smart can be this dense. “Let me rephrase, then,” he says softly, dangerously, and is gratified at the way her gaze locks on his face in response. “You were under my protection from the moment I agreed to help you. Regardless of whether or not you join my pack, I take the responsibility of caring for my guests very seriously. Ensuring that you receive necessary medical care is part of that responsibility, both as the Alpha sheltering you, and as your Alpha-to-be. To say nothing of my duties as a husband and partner, should we handfast. Am I clear?”

Her cheeks are flushed bright pink, her eyes downcast. “Yes, Alpha,” she whispers, and this time, the use of his title sounds like an apology.

He’ll take it.

 

***

 

He accompanies her to the appointment, despite her insistence that he “doesn't need to.” It's curious, because she seemed to understand that he's invested in her health, that he's responsible for her for now, even if they don't handfast. Despite that, she's oddly uncomfortable about him being there, her knee jittering non-stop as they wait to be called.

Eventually, he can't help himself. He bumps his knee to hers, and it startles her into stillness. “What has you so anxious, little one?”

She shrugs, chewing a fingernail. “I'm just—I haven't had anyone with me to my appointments in years. It's weird.”

His instinct to protect, to shelter and care for, has him swallowing a snarl on her behalf. She's so _young_ , to be unused to support. He reminds himself that they’re in public, and she was orphaned. Before he figures out what to say that isn’t a useless platitude, the nurse calls her name. He follows, resisting the urge to rest his hand on her lower back.

He hangs back as the nurse measures and records Stiles’s height, weight, blood pressure, and heart rate. He’d already known her heart is unusually fast, but he hadn’t known her blood pressure was that low. The same way he knew she was tall for a woman—only a couple inches shorter than he is—but not that she’s a lean hundred and twenty-six pounds. He wants to peel her out of her layers, see if she’s toned or just thin under the baggy plaid, wants to know if he needs to make feeding her a priority or if it’s safe to have her join them on full-moon runs. He holds his tongue.

He doesn’t, however, refrain from draping an arm across the back of her chair when they’re shown into Marin’s office. Stiles doesn’t lean back into it, doesn’t draw comfort from it like his pack would, but the offer is there. The good doctor gives him a knowing look before turning her attention to Stiles.

“Hello, Stiles. I’m Dr. Morrell. Did you bring your medical files?”

She nods, pulling a chain with a flash drive over her head. “Yeah. Health folder, the records are in there.”

Marin takes it from her and plugs it into the computer’s USB drive. “I’ll go over them later, but for now, can you give me a quick history?”

Stiles shifts, uncomfortable. “My mom died when I was eight—frontotemporal dementia. My dad died a few years ago—gunshot wounds. He was a cop. I don’t have anyone else. At least, not in the US, so my knowledge of my family history is kinda limited.”

Marin nods at her to continue, and Peter counts his breaths as she does. “I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was a kid, and I’ve been on Adderall for it since we realized it works for me. That’s about it.”

Peter hears her heart stutter, but even if he hadn’t, he’d suspect she was glossing over a substantial amount. “Lie,” he murmurs.

Stiles’s jaw clenches. “She asked for a quick history, Alpha, not every doctor and hospital visit from the time I could walk.”

“Be that as it may, is there something else about your health that concerns you, Stiles?”

She hesitates before shaking her head. Smart girl. Her words can’t betray her if she doesn’t speak. “I know stress has messed me up, but I don’t think it’s more than that.”

If they were seeing a male doctor, that would be the end of it. But Marin is a woman, and she knows how often stress can mask other symptoms, and cause problems all its own. “What stress-related symptoms are you experiencing?”

Stiles darts a glance his way, and Peter is concerned by the fear and hesitation in her scent. “Stiles? What’s wrong?”

She’s silent for a moment before her scent goes brittle with a mix of determination and resignation. “My periods.”

Marin just nods calmly. “That’s common. How’ve they been affected?”

“I’m not having them.”

It makes something painful squeeze in his chest to hear that. Peter wants to draw her close, cradle her against him and _eviscerate_ anything that so much as looks at her until she’s healthy again. But he’s fairly certain that’s unacceptably extreme, so he settles for stroking a hand down her arm, and she darts another look at him.

Before he can reassure her, Marin cuts in. “How long has it been since your last cycle?”

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, playing at a nonchalance that’s betrayed by the fact she won’t look either of them in the eye. “I don’t actually know.”

Marin nods, typing for a moment. “Can you give me any sort of benchmark?”

Stiles ducks her head, thinking. “Probably more than six months, but less than nine? I think?”

At this rate, Peter’s going to need to go hunt down deer in the Preserve when they get back. Thankfully, Marin saves him from doing something ridiculously instinct-driven. “Are you having any other stress-related issues?”

She smiles wryly, but it doesn’t mask the tiredness a couple nights’ sleep isn’t enough to erase. “Oh, you know. The usual. Tired, not sleeping right. Headaches, muscle soreness. Not sure how much of it is just general feeling shitty because of everything going on, but I’m gonna guess most of it is.”

Marin nods, and doesn’t press for what caused Stiles such stress. She might have, if it were another patient, if Stiles weren’t here with Peter, if she didn’t know all too well how the supernatural can take a brutally high toll on human bodies. “Alright. What medications are you on, and you said on the phone that you needed a prescription?”

Stiles smiles, relieved to get to the purpose of the visit. “Adderall, yeah. It’s the only thing I’m on regularly—other than that, it’s mostly just over the counter stuff.”

Marin nods, clicking through the provided files. “And which of those were you using?”

Stiles makes a brief face before schooling her features, and Peter nearly laughs at how comical the expression is. “Uh, the usual, I guess? Mostly ibuprofen, but honestly whatever I could get my hands that would treat pain without a prescription. So, Tylenol, and aspirin, too, sometimes.”

Marin frowns, and Peter wonders what’s wrong. “I don’t see a recent record of an Adderall prescription or dosage.”

Stiles looks puzzled for a moment, before—“Oh! Yeah, no, there wouldn’t be.” She pulls an empty pill bottle out of the breast pocket of her flannel overshirt. “But there’s the info.”

Marin picks up the bottle to read the label, and Peter turns to her, eyebrow raised. A lack of records could mean a lot of things, given his little stray’s predicament before she found her way to them, but since she had a copy of her medical records on a portable device around her neck, the lack of documentation is suspicious. “What did you do, little one?” He makes sure he doesn’t sound accusatory, just in case.

She drops her eyes anyway. “About a year ago, I saw a doctor who was willing to write me a prescription for my meds. But because it’s a controlled substance, rules are you can’t give more than a month’s worth at a time, although you can get three or four repeats on a prescription. I wasn’t sure where I was gonna end up or if I was gonna need to be able to disappear, so,” she shrugs, a half-smile pulling at her mouth. “I bribed the doc to write me a year’s worth of prescriptions. One month only, no repeats, dated by month so I was less likely to sell them. I mean, I wasn’t gonna, and you’d think a dude taking bribes wouldn’t give a shit, but whatever, I got my meds.”

Before he can respond to that—he’s surprised, pleasantly so, and more than a little proud of her resourcefulness—Marin speaks. “Given your current state, I’m not going to prescribe you as high a dose as this.”

All of Stiles’s attention snaps to her at that. “What? Why? I’ve been on that dose for years!”

Marin’s face is kind as she rests her forearms on her desk. “I know, and I’m not saying I’ll keep you on a lower dose permanently, or that I’m scaling you back by a large amount. But the side-effects are ones your body will be hard-pressed to cope with right now, so until Peter’s got you settled in, back to a healthy weight and sleeping regularly, I’m lowering your dose. You were on,” she pauses to look at the label for a moment, “15mg, twice a day?”

Stiles nods. She isn’t happy about what Marin’s saying, but the resignation in her scent is hard to get a read on. Peter can’t detect any disappointment, but there’s no relief either. He hopes she’s just understanding of the reason for the change.

“Alright. Then, for the time being, I’m going to put you on 10mg twice a day, unless you think you can handle a once-daily dose?”

Stiles is shaking her head before Marin finishes. “My metabolism’s too fast, and my focus goes to shit on one dose a day. Never mind how bad my anxiety gets without it.”

Marin’s head tilts. “You have anxiety issues? Or are you anxious over being out of your medication?”

Stiles grimaces briefly. “I used to have panic attacks, after my mom died. They stopped after a few years, but,” she shrugs, mouth pulling in a sour expression. “They’ve made a few appearances since my dad died.”

Marin, to her credit, doesn’t so much as blink. Peter’s never been so grateful for her unflappability. “Were you ever on anything for the panic attacks?”

Stiles’s scent turns sharp, almost acrid with irritability. “Yeah, but not in years. I would’ve mentioned if I was.”

“Are you interested something to help with your anxiety, or at least the panic attacks?”

“No,” Stiles spits, and Peter’s taken aback by the vehemence, but Marin just agrees softly.

“Alright. I just have a few more questions, and then I’ll write you a prescription for a month’s worth of the lower Adderall dose, and send you to the lab for bloodwork. Okay?”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a shuddering breath and slumps against the chair. Peter wraps his arm around her, tucking her against his side as much as he can with the armrests between them, and she doesn’t fight him, letting him take her weight. If he didn’t know before that she was worn out, that alone would tell him.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” Marin reassures.

Stiles sighs. “Hit me.”

“Have you been sexually active in the last year?”

Peter can feel the heat of her blush through his shirt as she curls in towards him—though she steers clear of his throat, which he appreciates. “Uh. Yes?”

“How many partners?”

Her face burns hotter, and Peter rubs a hand up and down her back. “Two, maybe three?”

She sounds so unsure, not of the numbers but of herself, that Peter can’t help muttering, “It’s alright, darling,” against her hair.

Marin gives him an approving look before addressing her patient. “When was your last STI screening? Is there any change your missed periods are the result of pregnancy?”

At that, Stiles snorts. “God, no. I went to a clinic six months ago, and was given the all-clear. No STDs, no pregnancies. There hasn’t been anyone since then.”

Marin nods. “Are you experiencing anything out of the ordinary aside from the missed periods? Anything that you think we need to look into?”

Stiles pauses for a moment, thinking, and Peter approves. If she’d said no right away, he wouldn’t have believed her. Eventually, she shakes her head, and Marin moves on.

“Are there any other medications that you need or want to discuss with me? Birth control, perhaps?”

At that, Stiles’s scent goes sharp—but with what, Peter can’t tell. It’s there and gone too fast for him to identify. “Not today.”

“Alright. Do you want or need a referral to any other specialists or practitioners?”

She drags a hand through her hair. “I mean, there’s probably a couple I should see, but I’ll get that from you if I’m staying, so, not today. But thank you.”

Marin gives him a piercing look when she says that, but merely prints off the requisition for blood work without a word.

 

***

 

Peter holds her hand at the lab—she’s afraid of needles. He hadn’t expected that, somehow. He gets her soft-serve ice cream on the way home, and she disappears upstairs once they get in.

He’s not exactly thrilled that she’s retreating, but he understands it. He decides against hunting deer in the Preserve for the moment, if only because dragging it back will be ridiculously difficult if he goes now, alone, but he will later. He distracts himself replying to work emails—he turns down a couple clients and refers them to someone he knows that’s closer, because like hell is he spending three weeks in New York right now—and is considering how to get started on another job when his phone rings.

“Hello?”

“ _It’s Marin. Stiles’s lab results came back_.”

His brow furrows. “So soon? I didn’t expect to hear from you for at least another couple of days.”

“ _I put it on rush, and the results hit my computer ten minutes ago, but Peter—_ ”

His heart skips a beat, and then starts going double-time. He’s suddenly unspeakably grateful that he’s in his soundproofed office. No one else needs to hear this.

_“—her hematology is all over the place, her white count’s way lower than it should be, her hemoglobin has fallen out, everything about her cholesterol is backwards, her stress hormones are off the charts_ —”

He takes a moment to breathe, and let the words wash over him. This shouldn’t feel like a gut punch, but it does. He knew she wasn’t healthy when he brought her to Marin. Any were with half a nose could smell it on her. This isn’t news. “What does all this mean?”

She pauses. “ _Weren’t you listening?_ ”

He rubs his eyes. “I was, but you’re throwing medical jargon at me like it’s the morning before a med school exam. I need to know what this means, practically, for her and us. How do we address what’s wrong?”

“ _Ah_.” She’s silent for a moment. “ _Functionally, she needs to de-stress. She needs to sleep, and eat an iron-rich, high-protein diet because, frankly, the anemia is her biggest problem right now. If she winds up injured, she’s going to struggle to clot, and at this point, not menstruating is preventing her from bleeding out or worse_.”

He is absolutely taking Cora and going hunting in the Preserve when she gets home, Derek and Lydia can complain about the mess all they want, he _does not_ care. “Alright. Thanks, Marin. I’ll take care of her, I promise.”

He can hear her smile as she murmurs, “ _Of course you will. You’re a better Alpha than you give yourself credit for_.”

And then she hangs up, and his first order of business is finding his nephew and informing him that their menu will need to be adjusted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads-up: there will probably be a break between now and when the next chapter gets posted. I have some stories that are done but need to be edited before they can be posted, in addition to meatspace responsibilities. We're probably looking at 3-4 weeks before this updates this again, but that's an extremely rough estimate. The good news is that there will be other fic from me in the meantime.


	5. feel like myself again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said 3-4 weeks until this updated again? Hahahaha, whoops. In my defense, there is a LOT going on in this chapter, and chronic illness is a bitch, so here's hoping the chapter came together properly and isn't just a hot mess. 
> 
> Happy Friday!

  
Stiles stares at her phone, trying to process what Dr. Morrell said. She—she’d known, that she wasn’t doing great. But she didn’t realize she’d managed to run her body into the ground as she ran for her life. Sighing, she plugs the phone in to charge, and decides to deal with it tomorrow.

 

***

 

Unfortunately, she doesn't want to deal with it when she wakes up any more than she wanted to last night. Rubbing her eyes and dragging her fingers through her hair, her stomach sinks as she realizes she doesn't know where to start. She has meds to pick up from a pharmacy she's never been to before, and no way to pay for them. Which means having to deal with the pack—and as much as she dreads having to go to the Alpha with her hand out begging, at least he's already aware that she'll need medication and has expressed a willingness to pay for them. She doesn't particularly want to have that conversation with another pack member. They're still strangers to her, and this is not the way she wants to start the Get To Know You.

But when she finally heads downstairs in search of coffee, she finds someone else she doesn't know in the kitchen. The woman is dark-haired, her features a sharp kind of beautiful that marks her as another Hale. Stiles wishes she was anywhere else. The woman stares at her until she has to say something. “Hi?”

Unknown Hale jerks her head. “C’mon on in. Coffee's made, and we'll head out after that.”

Stiles tries not to be obvious about refusing to turn her back on the probable-werewolf as she pours coffee into the biggest mug she can find in the cupboard. “Head out? Where?”

The look she gets is piercing. “You need stuff. I'm your ride.”

“Oh.” She ducks her head, fixing her mug. That's, well. At least she can get her meds, anyway. Assuming this woman doesn't mind paying for them. “How did you get stuck babysitting?”

The woman snorts, a brief smile crossing her face. “My uncle, the Alpha, has to work today, and I wasn't gonna inflict my wife on you.”

Stiles has so many questions. “Uh, thanks. That's, um. Who's your wife?”

“Gorgeous redhead, banshee, better with math than people?”

Stiles nearly does a spit take. As it is, she chokes trying not to spew coffee halfway across the kitchen. “ _Lydia_? You're married to Lydia?”

It gets her a smirk, and she can suddenly see the family resemblance between her and her uncle. “Yep.” Then, in a flash, her face hardens. “You got a problem with that?”

Stiles shakes her head, half in answer, and half to clear the rest of the coffee from her windpipe. “Nope. Just amazed that you don't.”

“Good answer.” She gestures to the seat across from her. “Name's Cora. Sit down, I don't bite.” She flashes a grin. “Often, anyway.”

Stiles can't help it—she laughs. “Yeah, alright.” She sits, but that doesn't mean she's comfortable with this. “So what do you know?” At Cora's confused look, she clarifies. “About me, and what we're doing today, I mean.”

“Ah.” Cora shrugs. “Not much. I know my uncle cares about you, but is busy today, so he asked me to take care of you. I know Peter told me to use the pack card for whatever you need.” Cora pauses for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s in the same matter-of-fact tone. “I know that you’re on the run, and I want to know what from. It’s not that I doubt Peter’s judgement, just that I like to know what’s coming for me before I have to tear it apart.”

Stiles stills, barely breathing. It takes a long moment and three tries before she can croak, “He told you that?”

Cora raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t have to. You showed up here with nothing but a duffel bag and enough paranoia to make my brother look well-adjusted. I can put two and two together.”

She swallows. “Right.” Stiles stares into her coffee mug, wondering how to explain when, really, it’s the last thing she wants to do. She doesn’t know Cora, doesn’t know what’s safe to tell her, what the Alpha wants the rest of the pack to know—never mind what she actually wants to tell them.

“Look, I’m not saying you have to tell me everything. But you asked what I knew, and I told you. You figure out what’s vital for me to know on the way to breakfast.”

It’s an unexpected mercy. “Breakfast?”

Cora nods, standing. “Yeah, there’s a diner that does breakfast wraps to die for. Figured we’d swing by there and pick up a couple, then head out to wherever it is you need to go.”

“Okay.” She downs the rest of her coffee, then heads upstairs to get her wallet. She’ll probably need ID to pick up her meds, even if she’s not paying for them.

She follows Cora outside, and whistles when she’s led to a shiny Camaro. Cora grins. “Yeah, it’s pretty sweet. Technically, it’s Derek’s car, but I didn’t think you’d wanna hop on the back of my bike, so we’re borrowing this for today.”

Stiles can’t help but laugh. “I am not complaining, holy shit. Also—you have a bike?”

Cora nods towards the corner of the garage, where a compact little motorcycle sits, gleaming black and gold. “Yep. Does what I need it to, and it has the benefit of going fast enough to suit me.”

Stiles wanders over, brushing her fingers against the handlebars. “It’s gorgeous.” She looks back over to where Cora’s lounging against the hood of the Camaro. “You’d really take me for a spin on this?”

Cora straightens. “If you wanted to, absolutely. Lydia won’t unless there’s an emergency, but there’s just—there’s something I can’t describe about being on it. It’s so freeing.” A wicked look creeps across her face. “Plus there’s nothing like taking a virgin on their first ride.”

Stiles laughs as she gets in the car. But she thinks about it. Somehow, it’s easy to picture climbing on the back of the bike, wrapping her arms around Cora’s waist and seeing just how fast it can go. It unsettles her—Cora’s a stranger, and putting her life in a stranger’s hands is stupid at best. But there’s something about her straightforwardness that feels comfortable—like that first deep breath after peeling out of your bra.

She thinks about why that is as she waits for Cora to come back with their breakfast, and as she silently eats her wrap. It really is fantastic. But once it’s gone, she knows she has to speak. She decides to start with the easiest thing. “First stop is the pharmacy.”

Cora nods. “Alright. Which one?”

It pulls her up short. “Oh god. I don’t actually know?”

Cora shoots her an incredulous look. “How can you not know?”

Her shoulders hunch. So much for easy. “I saw Dr. Morrell, and she faxed my prescriptions to the pharmacy—I’m guessing whatever one the rest of your pack uses.”

“Why didn’t you say you’d seen the good doc? I would’ve known exactly where to take you.”

Stiles decides not to answer the question. “Which is where?”

“She sends pretty much all her patients to the place her brother runs. It’s a combo pharmacy and apothecary—means we can get the shit we need to treat ourselves without ending up on a federal watch list.”

She’s reluctantly impressed. “Sounds smart.”

Cora snorts. “It is, but her brother’s a dick.”

Stiles bursts out laughing. “What?”

She gets a headshake. “You’ll see.”

 

***

 

It takes precisely two minutes of talking to Alan Deaton before Stiles decides that Cora’s right, the guy’s a pompous bag of dicks. One she is nowhere near medicated enough to deal with, but she drags in a breath through clenched teeth and does her best. “No, I understand that my medication is a restricted substance, which is why my prescription doesn’t have refills. I’ve also been on it for years, so could you please trust me to know the side-effects and just give me the pills that make the screaming brain goblins shut up?”

Cora’s delighted cackle makes the dead-eyed stare she gets from him worth it.

 

***

 

By the time Stiles gets back to the pack house, she’s got her meds—and taken them, because being able to focus is both beautiful and necessary—toiletries, shoes that aren’t held together by duct tape, and a haircut. She’s grateful for all of it, but it’s the haircut that hits her the hardest.

Getting to talk to the stylist about what she wanted, about what would suit her, made her feel normal. It was familiar in a way she hadn’t realized she missed. Having it thinned out and short again makes her feel like herself. She can almost forget about how shitty the last three years have been when she looks in the mirror and sees the girl in her graduation photo, with her hair waving messily above her shoulders and bangs falling across her forehead.

It makes her remember how her mom suggested this cut, and the way her dad used to tease her about the bangs. The memories are good, but they’re all she has now, and the thought makes her chest squeeze and eyes burn. In the end, she lets herself cry, just for a while, quietly in the little blue guestroom where the werewolves will pretend they can’t hear her. And if she naps after, curled around a pillow the way she wishes she could wrap her arms around her dad, even they won’t be able to tell.

 

***

 

She’s groggy and disoriented when she wakes up, the kind that comes from sleeping too hard and not long enough. It’s hard to believe it’s only two in the afternoon. It’s tempting to close her eyes again, but she wants to be able to sleep tonight, so she eventually drags her ass downstairs because, if nothing else, she missed lunch.

She blames the grogginess for the fact that she blurts, “Do you just, like, live in here?” when she sees Allison sitting at the kitchen island.

Allison, for her part, laughs helplessly. “Oh, honey.”

Stiles rubs at her face with one hand, heading towards the coffeemaker. Because coffee might fix this. Or at least make awake feel a little less surreal. But, since she’s not looking where she’s going, it takes her a moment to realize that the obstacle she just bounced off of is human-shaped. “Hmm? Oh, sorry.”

Large hands rest on her shoulders. “Are you always this out of it after waking, little one?”

Oh, joy. She managed to stumble into the Alpha in her blind shuffle towards coffee. That’s just what her day needed. His tone is fond, but when she looks, she sees an expectant expression on his face. She shrugs. “Not always.”

He hums, unconvinced, and turns her around. “You sit. I’ll get what you need until I’m convinced you’re not a danger to yourself.”

“I can coffee,” she grumbles, but Allison just pats her hand and tells the Alpha how much sugar to add.

Stiles doesn't actually climb inside the mug set in front of her, but she would if she could. She definitely gives it her best try. And, when she surfaces, she notices the amused looks she’s getting. “Uh. Hi?”

It gets her a chuckle from the Alpha. “Nice to have you back, little one.” At her confused look, he elaborates. “In the land of the living. We weren’t sure whether or not we could save you, when your zombie wandered into the kitchen.”

She flips him the bird before she stops to consider it, but luckily, it only prompts a small laugh. “I came in here because I missed lunch.”

For some reason, it makes him stare at her intensely. “I see. Were you interested in anything in particular?”

“Uh, no?” She hadn’t really thought about it much, but figured that she could raid the fridge and pantry to cobble together a sandwich of some kind. Bread and cheese are pretty universal staples.

Peter nods, and rises. “Let me check the fridge—I’m sure we have leftovers you’ll like. Any food allergies?”

Blinking, because this conversation keeps getting weirder and weirder, she answers, “Uh, no? Although too much of anything greasy will probably make me feel sick, and super-spicy food, while delicious, is not worth the gastrointestinal distress. And cilantro tastes like soap.”

Peter hums as he stares in the fridge. “But rice, pasta, potatoes—those are all fine? Bread, baked goods, pot roast?”

“Yeah,” she mutters slowly, wondering if all Alphas are this hands-on with learning a potential packmate’s dietary preferences.

“We have some leftover meatballs here. How would you feel about a meatball sandwich?” Her stomach gurgles loudly and her mouth floods with saliva. He shoots her a glance as he pulls out a Tupperware container. “I’ll take that as a yes. Cheese?”

“Yes, please.”

She deliberately doesn’t stare as he assembles her sandwich for her, no matter how hungry and weirded out she is. But as her gaze wanders around the kitchen, she notices the pen and paper in front of Allison. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.” She nods at the paper.

Allison smiles. “Not really. If anything, your timing’s good—we were putting together the grocery list, but we don’t know what you like, or if you had any allergies or restrictions.”

And suddenly, Peter’s questions make a little more sense. “Oh, um. Don’t worry about it too much, I’ll eat whatever you’re having, if that’s okay.”

Peter sets the plate with her sandwich on it in front of her, his other hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You’re allowed to have opinions, sweetheart. The thing about living in close quarters with werewolves is that we hate when our packmates are miserable, and not just because the scent’s impossible to get out of upholstery.”

It shocks a snort out of her, and Peter gives her shoulder a little squeeze before he lets go. “So, by all means, check the list and feel free to add anything to it. Although,” he pauses, head tilting. “It might be better if you just went with Allison this time.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, and before she has an answer, Allison’s agreeing. “That’s a good idea. Lydia and Derek are out right now, and I know you and Cora have a thing,” it’s said with a sly little smile that Stiles doesn’t understand but can easily interpret as mischief, “so it’d be good to have an extra pair of hands. Werewolves don’t eat light.” She looks at Stiles. “What do you say?”

Stiles takes a bite of her sandwich to buy herself an extra ten seconds to think. As she swallows, she gives a nod. “Yeah, that’d be good. You’re letting me stay, I’d like to help.”

She gets smiles from both of them, so warm she can feel her face heat.

 

***

 

Peter insists that she drink a glass of water and eat the apple he slices for her (she’d definitely looked at him like he had three heads for that one, because what is she, six?) before they leave, so it’s close to three o’clock before she slides into the passenger seat of Derek’s car.

Which. “Are all the vehicles like, pack cars, or is Derek just really chill about loaning out the Camaro?”

Allison giggles, shaking her head. “It’s more that Peter is really territorial about his cars, and Cora’s bike isn’t exactly built for storage. And my car is with my dad, because there wasn’t a whole lot of sense in having it over here, and it made Peter a little twitchy. At least in the beginning.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to make heads or tails of that last bit. “Okay . . .?”

Allison glances over at her and sighs. Her hands flex on the steering wheel. “How much do you know about the Hale pack, and the fire?”

She breaths out slowly, cheeks puffing. “I mean. I know that their numbers were decimated by a fire, what—ten years ago?” Allison nods, and she keeps going. “I know that it was a hunter who set it, because I know the woman who did it got caught, and there was an argument over whether or not it should be considered a hate crime, but,” she shrugs. “I was a kid at the time, you know? And my mom had just died.”

Allison gives a heavy sigh. “I mean, I guess I can’t blame you for not knowing. Cora and Derek don’t like to talk about it, and Lydia’s, well. She’s Lydia.” Allison looks over at her as the car stops at a red light. “But you need to know, and I’m the one who’s the least impacted by what happened, so I guess it’s up to me.”

Stiles regrets asking now. “You don’t have to.” She really, really hopes they get to the grocery store soon.

But Allison’s jaw is set, and her usual sunny demeanor is absent. “I really do. So,” she pauses. When she speaks again, she’s quiet, her tone deliberately even. “My full name is Allison Argent, and my family are one of the old hunting lines.”

Dread settles in Stiles’s stomach, but she doesn’t know why, exactly. She waits, and Allison continues.

“When Derek was fifteen, my aunt Kate seduced him to get the information she needed to set the Hale fire.” Stiles lets out a punched-out sound, and Allison nods. “Yeah. Only Derek’s not an idiot, and didn’t tell her everything, and none of her other sources were as accurate as him, so she—there were five people killed, in the end. Derek and Cora’s mom, Talia, who was the Alpha, plus their dad and grandmother. They also lost an aunt and cousin who were staying with them.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles whispers, closing her eyes as they prickle with tears. She doesn’t have to strain her imagination to know how the survivors felt. Her dad’s death is still too fresh for that.

Allison swallows, and goes on. “There were four survivors. Derek, because he was at basketball practise when she—and Laura was away doing her first year of college.”

That leaves—“Peter and Cora?”

Allison nods again, and pulls into the parking lot of the grocery store. “Yeah. He was out, running errands, and came back to find the house ablaze. He, uh. He saved her.”

“Wha--really?”

“Yeah. She was in the house. We—he thinks that Talia willed the Alpha power to him, before she died. That she could hear him, outside, trying to get to them. When the power passed to him, he used it to break the line. Cora says her dad broke the window, but they couldn’t escape because of the mountain ash. Peter pulled her out. He wanted to try and go back in, for the others, but—there was too much structural damage, the house was already coming down.”

“Oh my god.” She can’t say anything else. There aren’t words.

Allison laughs wetly, turning the car off. “Yeah. I found out about the supernatural when the Tribunal broke down our front door and dragged my whole family to trial.”

“That’s wild. I’m so sorry.”

She gets a nod, and they sit for a few minutes in the parked car. Eventually, the silence gets to her, and she asks, “So—how did you and Derek end up . . . whatever you are?”

Allison chuckles. “Anyone ever tell you that you don’t ask easy questions?”

She rolls her eyes, as a half-smile tugs at her mouth. “My dad used to say it all the time.”

Allison reaches out and takes her hand. Stiles clings to it like a lifeline, although whose it is, she can’t tell. “After everything was said and done, my aunt and mom were executed. It was their idea, and—well, the Hales were going to be a test-case for them.”

“They were going to do it again?”

Allison nods, ducking her head so her hair hides her face, and Stiles feels her heart break a little. “I’m so sorry you lost your mom, and your aunt.”

It gets her a hand-squeeze. “The Tribunal ordered my family to pay restitution, and basically clean house, which is what my Dad’s been doing for the last ten years. It’s been a long process, but he’s taking applications for new recruits, because the supernatural world actually does need hunters, but. Good ones.”

Stiles thinks of what she’d most want to hear right now, and has to swallow a lump in her throat before she can speak. “Well, he raised you, so he can’t be all bad.”

She’s treated to more of those dimples she first saw when she met Allison. “Anyway, um, one of the Tribunal mandates was that the bloodlines be mixed, to discourage any further attempts at genocide.”

Horror makes her guts turn to ice, and she clutches at Allison’s hand more firmly. “So, what? They—they ordered you to have Derek’s baby?”

“No, no, no, no!” Allison twists to hold onto her with both hands. “I volunteered for this, and so did Derek. Peter thought that being a dad, having a new family member, might help him.”

Stiles nods, because she can see that, after what happened, but, at the same time—“I just. I don’t mean to be insulting or anything, but I don’t know how he slept with you after what your aunt did.”

She’s startled when Allison bursts into manic giggles. “Oh my god, no. I’m, well. I’m basically a surrogate? So,” she trails off, blushing and gives Stiles a meaningful look.

After a minute, it clicks, and she snorts. “So you’re saying that tall, dark and growly jerked it into a cup for you to enjoy with a turkey baster?”

Allison lets go, clapping her hands to her face to muffle laughter. Stiles hears her mutter, “Oh my God,” and grins.

When Allison finally lets her hands drop from her face, Stiles decides to extend an olive branch. “So, grocery shopping for werewolves. Is this a two-cart affair, or what? How’re we doing this?”

Allison smiles gratefully. “Definitely two carts.”  

 


	6. push through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeey. I know, it's been a while. I was having plot issues and got blocked on this for a long time, but it's finally flowing again! Hope you enjoy the chapter, and endless thanks to Bunnywest for helping me troubleshoot. 
> 
> Thanks for being patient, and have a good weekend!

 

To say Cora's confused when he immediately ropes her into a hunt the minute she sets foot in the door is an understatement. But, of her siblings, she's most in-tune with her instincts, the most willing to indulge her lupine tendencies, so she doesn't complain. Aside from minor grumbling at having to change, but that’s par for the course.

She shoots him deeply judgemental looks that he ignores until after they’ve brought down a young buck—and maybe also a few rabbits.

“So,” she grunts, settling the carry-straps for the sling on her shoulders, “not that I don’t love ruining my clothes and hauling around a few hundred pounds of delicious carcass for my wife to bitch about, but what gives?”

He knew this was coming, but is more than a little grateful the dead deer in the sling means he doesn’t have to look her in the eye. “Stiles . . . isn’t well.” It’s nowhere near a complete answer, but he doubts Stiles would appreciate him sharing medical information of hers he’s technically not supposed to have.

Cora snorts. “Well, yeah. We knew that.” A snarl rips through his chest, and it’s so unexpected that she stumbles a little, turning to glare at him over her shoulder. “The fuck?”

He has to force his shift back thinking about it. “She’s—the malnourished kind of unwell,” he finally manages.

“Ah.” She’s quiet for a moment, then, “That’d do it.”

“Do what?”

“Send your instincts into overdrive.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “You’ve basically claimed her already, or your wolf has, anyway.”

Well, she always was a perceptive little shit. “Funny, pretty sure I haven’t, since that would require, at the very least, a ritual we haven’t done. Or a bite, which definitely hasn’t happened.”

She has the audacity to laugh at him. “Those are formalities and you know it, uncle.” She shoots him a smile over her shoulder. “A lot of pack is instinct, remember? And she just—fits with us. I can feel it.” She pauses for a moment, and Peter wonders if he regrets the fact that she apparently listened to him when she was growing up. “Well, I can feel the potential for it, anyway.”

Now that, that is interesting. “Really? I take it your morning with her was successful, then?”

She makes a so-so noise. “I mean, it was hard to tell—she’s really guarded, you know? Kinda reminds me of Derek, after.” She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t have to. Peter knows what she means, remembers when his nephew was so withdrawn there were days he seemed little more than a walking corpse. “But there’s a kind of, I dunno, magnetism there. Once she unclenches a little, she’ll fit right in.”

It’s better news than he’d hoped for, truly. “I’m glad to hear it.” He wonders, then, how much contact their little stray has had with the rest of the pack—he foisted her on Cora for the day, and he knows she’s out with Allison right now, but that still leaves two—well, technically three, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it—that haven’t had much of a chance to weigh in, yet. “Do you know if Lydia’s been able to spend time with her? I know she said the same as you, that she felt Stiles would fit with us, but I think we all know it’s going to take work.”

Cora huffs. “There’s a fucking understatement. And no, I’m pretty sure Stiles has been avoiding the hell out of my wife. Which, I’m not sure why, but I know you borrowed her on that first night, so I kinda suspect it’s your fault.”

“Rude,” he mutters. “I know I taught you manners.”

“Eh, just because you taught me them doesn’t mean I have to waste them on you.”

He growls playfully. “I can make you drag this thing home yourself, you know. You ought to show your Alpha a little more respect.”

He can hear her rolled eyes as she simpers, “Yes sir, Alpha sir, please oh please grant your humble beta forgiveness, sir.”

He can’t help his chuckle. “Give your wife a nudge towards our stray, and I’ll consider it.”

She shoots him a grin. “Done. But I want an extra helping of the stew Der-bear’s gonna make out of those rabbits.”

 

***

 

He’s debating between making a mug of herbal tea, or giving up on sleep entirely and starting the coffeemaker when he hears footsteps on the stairs. Curious about who else could possibly be awake at four in the morning, he focusses his hearing and is a little surprised to recognize their stray’s hummingbird heartbeat. His curiosity triples.

She startles and stops in her tracks when she comes around the corner and catches sight of him. He nods at her. “Can’t sleep?”

After a moment, she dips her chin and shuffles into the kitchen. She keeps the island and most of the room between them, leaning against the counter, and it hurts, to see a potential packmate so wary of him. But he knows that he can’t force trust, that trying to close the distance himself wouldn’t be welcome, so he keeps his ass on the island stool.

But when she stays put, gnawing her lip and eyes darting, he can’t help rolling his eyes. “I don’t bite.” She gives him an incredulous look, which—fair, so he gives his most charming smile. “Without invitation, anyway.”

She snorts, but sits across from him at the island. “What about you? Why are you awake?”

He shrugs. “I’ve always been something of a night owl.”

The narrowed gaze she levels at him is somewhat unexpected, but refreshing—it’s encouraging to see her personality peek through. “Yeah, no. I happen to know you have a day job, and being up ‘til fuck o’clock all the time isn’t super-compatible with that, so,” she trails off, dragging the vowel out and looking at him expectantly.

He probably shouldn’t find it endearing. He blames Cora. “I’m sure you know some of our history,” he pauses and she nods. “Is it really so surprising that sleep doesn’t come easy, sometimes?”

She swallows, and her scent flashes with something deep and aching, but it’s gone before he can riddle out exactly what it is. Even without it, though, something about her smells off. “Fair enough, I guess.”

“But what about you?” Her brow furrows, and he clarifies. “Why are you awake, little one? You need anything?”

She hesitates, her body language and scent screaming her discomfort at being asked. Peter very carefully doesn’t grit his teeth, and she eventually answers, “I’m just—restless. And achy.”

He keeps his ass in his seat and his hands around his elbows, because he is not a pup ruled by his instincts, thank you very much. It still takes him a moment before he can speak normally. “Where are you hurting, little one?”

She ducks her head, but the scent of her discomfort is suddenly undercut by hope. “It’s, um. My back again. Still. Whatever. If,” she looks up at him, and he can see her fighting to get the words out, so he nods encouragingly the way he used to when his niece and nephew were young. Stiles swallows. “Would you, um. Derek did a thing, the other morning, at breakfast—the black vein thing?”

It takes him a moment, but he smiles gently when he understands, and the warm glow of satisfaction fills him that she’s asked. “I’d be happy to, sweetheart. But I’d also like to check, if you don’t mind? I’d rather not mask a problem that we can treat.”

She doesn’t immediately run screaming, but that might be down to tiredness than actual progress. Either way, he’ll take it. “You mean—you want to check my back?”

She sounds suspicious, which is exhausting and a little insulting, but not surprising. “I just want to look, run my hand over the skin, make sure there’s no swelling or bruising, nothing that looks like a pulled or torn muscle.” And, because it’s so late it’s early and he’s frustrated, he adds, “I’m not the bad guy here, Stiles. I really do want to help you.”

Her eyes drop and she nods, hunching in on herself. “I understand. Sorry, Alpha.”

The murmured, “Good girl,” slips out, but he’s already up and halfway ‘round the island before he realizes he’s said it. She tenses as he gets closer, and understanding hits him like a truck—she won’t want to be boxed in between his body and the island, unable to stand and get away, won’t be able to breathe freely while trapped between him and the counter. The fact that he’d be standing, looming over her probably won't do them any favours, either.

“Stand up for me?” She looks up, not expecting that, but nods. The rigidity of her spine eases when he turns her to face the doorway. “I'm going to lift your shirt, alright?” He waits until she nods again, and then carefully pulls the hem up with one hand, the other mapping her back with his fingertips.

She shivers at the touch, and her scent explodes with satisfaction-hunger-apprehension, and he realizes her scent was off before because despite living in the house with the pack, _she doesn't smell like any of them_.

But one issue at a time. “I'm going to reach up and check your upper back, under your shirt.”

She sucks in a hissing breath, but whispers, “Okay.” He doubts she understands why she's so conflicted about this, her reactions to it, but 4am is not the time to start delicate conversations, so he shelves it for now and sticks to checking for signs of swelling. There's a little, significantly less than he expected, so he runs his palm down the curve of her spine and slips it out from under her clothes.

“So what's the verdict?”

She probably means to sound flippant, but that's the thing about the wee hours of the morning—they have a habit of stripping you raw and leaving you bare. “No signs of muscle damage, but you're strung tighter than a bow.”

She sighs. “Figures. So, uh, veiny thing now?”

“Or I could rub your back for you.” It's a gamble, but then, everything is with her, at this point. He might as well.

She throws a skeptical look over her shoulder at him, and the sheer _sass_ in it has his lips twitching into a grin. “What, here? In the middle of the kitchen? If you don't wanna do the veiny pain thing, then just say so.”

He chuckles and steps around her. “I actually had the living room sofa in mind, but never let it be said I'm unwilling to experiment—we can try out the kitchen if you'd like.”

She snorts, and mutters a quiet, “Oh my God,” into her hands. Then she looks up at his face, and nods. “Yeah. I mean, why not? Though, I should warn you,” she smirks at him and by the moon, is this what she's like when she's not censoring herself? “With the super-strength, I expect some top-notch massage skills out of those hands, Alpha Hale.”

He gives a little bow and gestures her past him, into the living room. “I aim to please.”

He catches a tickle of interest in her scent, but doesn’t respond. He has her sit in front of him on the couch, so they're both turned sideways. It's far from ideal (he'd prefer to be doing this on a bed, with her skin bare and some coconut oil slicking his palms), but he can't believe she's agreed to this much, he's not going to push for more.

She's quiet as he slips his hands back under her shirt, his thumbs massaging in circles up either side of her spine, coaxing the long muscles into loosening a little. He works his way up slowly, noticing how small she is under his hands, how little flesh stands between the pads of his fingers and her ribs. It worries him, but he doesn't say anything, not now, not yet. There's time, he'll get her healthy again. Instead, he focusses on her back, on helping her feel better.

When he reaches the bottom of her scapulae, he withdraws his hands from under her clothes and settles them gently against her left shoulder, and the back of her neck. He has a moment to feel grateful her hair is pulled into a little ponytail as he starts kneading the tense knots at the base of her skull—they’re not at the part of their relationship where he can pull her hair yet.

The thought has him huffing to himself, amused, but Stiles seems to misinterpret it, tensing under his hand. “What’s so funny?”

He strokes his thumb down the side of her throat, soothing. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just a random thought—my mind tends to wander when I’m tired.”

She turns to look at him over her shoulder, and the angle she’s twisting at forces him to stop what he’s doing. Her eyes narrow, and before his stomach can finish dropping, she spits, “Are you _scenting_ me?”

Peter is—he’s not sure how to respond. He doesn’t understand the reason for her biting hostility when ten seconds ago, she was pliant and smelling of contentment. But, while he doesn’t understand her sudden anger, he’s not in the habit of lying to packmates, so he gives a careful, “Yes?”

“God, I can’t believe I actually gave you a chance, you creep.”

She tries to pull away from him, but he tightens the grip he has on the back of her neck—not enough to hurt, but it makes her pause. He lets his voice go cold. Pre-dawn hours or not, he won’t be disrespected like this in his own home. “What, precisely, do you think scenting is?”

The look he gets is confused and derisive. “It’s a more subtle version of peeing on your territory, right?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, pained. “Where in the hell did you get that misguided notion from?”

She pauses, and seems to realize what she’s done. “I told you, I don’t exactly have much to go off of, here, because no one was willing to talk to me or share resources. I had to comb through whatever was online, and try to separate the truth from the bullshit.”

He turns her back around, and lets his hands sit heavily on her shoulders. She allows it, staying still, but her pulse ticks up in response. “Scenting,” he says slowly, “is a way to show belonging, yes. Werewolves are tactile creatures, and as a result, packmates tend to carry the scent of each other on both deep and superficial levels. Scenting can be intimate, or affectionate, or simply a way to welcome a packmate home after a trip. What it is _not_ , however, is a specific claim or mark of ownership, not between packmates.”

“Oh.”

Peter hums, squeezing and kneading at her tense shoulders a little more perfunctorily than he had worked her lower back. He lets her chew on that for a few minutes while he tries to unfuck the muscles around her scapulae, and it isn’t long before she mumbles, “Sorry, Alpha.”

He gives another hum, acknowledging it, but gathers his thoughts before speaking. It’s late and he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to fight with her, but some things are more important than what he wants. “You know, you came to us. It’s not your fault that there are things you don’t know, but lashing out in ignorance is unacceptable. You wanted us to take you in on nothing more than good faith, but you can’t seem to extend the same courtesy when I’ve done nothing but try to help you.”

He hears her breath hitch and smells the gathering salt of her tears welling up. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her against him and rocking them gently. “You’re allowed to be scared and uncertain, to need time to learn and understand. But pack is family, and that means disrespect and accusations should never be thrown around carelessly. I don’t expect you to trust us yet, because I know that it needs to be earned. But you have to work with us, little one. You have to meet us halfway.”

She curls up to rest her head against his shoulder. “I’ll do better, I promise, I just,” she hesitates, and he keeps rocking them like he used to do when Cora woke up with nightmares, and it works as well now as it did then. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what, little one?” he mutters against her hair.

“Why you—why you wanted to rub my back, or scent me, and I just—”

He sighs. “You jumped to conclusions.”

“Yeah.”

He rests his cheek against the top of her head. “I can do both, you know.”

“Both?”

“I can scent you and help you. They aren’t mutually exclusive. Besides,” he nuzzles her hair, knowing it’ll hold his scent until she washes it, “you smelled wrong.”

It startles a laugh out of her. “Uh, okay? I don’t know what that means?”

“You don’t smell like pack.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Guess that doesn’t pair well with wanting to stay, huh?” He hums, and he can hear her smile as she goes on. “And you’re a surprisingly good cuddler, so I guess I don’t mind.”

He grumbles half-heartedly, but doesn’t try to deny it, tucking her closer against his chest the way he’s wanted to since she showed up.

 


	7. I'd like to feel like I belong here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! It's only been a month this time! The real question is whether or not I can keep that up, LoL. 
> 
> As always: many, many thanks to Bunnywest for being my cheer-reader and troubleshooter. This fic would have been dead in the water months ago without her. 
> 
> Happy Friday, and here's to a fic-filled 2019! *raises a mug of tea*

 

She sleeps deeply and hard, waking to a heavy grogginess that's hard to shake. She has to choose to roll out of bed and shuffle downstairs, before she sinks back into blissful unconsciousness. Because, as tempting as that is, she has something to do. Something important.

She can't remember what it is, right now, but that's what coffee is for. Which is downstairs, so. Out of the warm blankets she goes.

She's greeted in the kitchen by Allison's cheerful smile—seriously, does she live in the kitchen?—and a nod from Derek. Surprisingly, Lydia looks at her and says, “You look like you need coffee.”

Stiles doesn't understand what's going on, but as far as she's concerned, “coffee” is the magic word. “Please,” she croaks.

Lydia squints at her, and Allison stands, laughing. “This is just what she's like when she wakes up. She'll be fine once we caffeinate her, I promise.”

Stiles likes Allison. Allison provides information and coffee. She's Stiles's favourite.

She's treated to a sunshine smile as her favourite person presses a mug into her hands. “Here you go, honey.”

She thinks she mumbles thanks before she dives into her mug, and would absolutely stay right where she is, except Allison gently steers her to the island. She's broken from her communion with the caffeine god by Derek's, “Pretty sure Peter's got competition now.”

Before she can figure out how to respond to that, there's a faint, “Not a chance,” from down the hall.

Derek snorts. “You can't smell how she's feeling about Allie right now.”

There are soft footsteps, and then Peter's rounding the corner, barefoot and sniffing exaggeratedly. “By the moon, can a man not have anything? Stealing my would-be bride, Miss Argent?”

The fact that they're joking starts to filter through as the coffee kicks her brain into gear. “Sorry, Alpha. She gave me coffee.”

She can feel the others’ eyes on her, but Peter's exaggerated pout as he moves closer has her attention. “Is that all it takes to usurp my place in your affections, little one?”

He reaches out carefully, telegraphing his intent, and she tips her cheek to rest in his palm. “I think there's enough room for you both.”

She's still not sure how she feels about him, and especially not about _marrying_ him, but the way his eyes crinkle as he grins makes her heart skip. He's a ridiculously beautiful man.

Lydia huffs. “There room for me in there?”

She pulls away from Peter, blinking as she looks at the banshee. “What?”

It gets her an eyeroll and a strange little half-smile. “There room in your affections for me, too? Or do I have to present caffeine offerings first?”

Stiles is so thrown her jaw drops and she sputters. “Are you joking right now?”

Peter takes a step back, but doesn’t leave as Lydia’s brows crinkle. Having him behind her, just out of sight but still watching, puts Stiles on edge. Lydia’s head tilts. “Why would I joke about that?”

Stiles grips her coffee mug tightly and keeps her voice very, very even. “I don’t know, you tell me. What you are after this time?”

At that, Derek turns to shoot her a narrow-eyed look, and Allison gives a little hum. Peter, tellingly, stays silent. Stiles doesn’t take her eyes off Lydia, who grimaces. “Suppose I deserve that.”

“Oh, you don’t say?”

“But,” Lydia grits out, “the fact is, I’m Peter’s Second. It’s my job to play devil’s advocate, to be suspicious, to make him examine his reasons for every course of action and offer alternatives if they exist. What happened in the office wasn’t personal.”

Stiles fights not to shiver as ice-cold fury erupts behind her ribs. She leans forward, arms braced on the countertop, and notices the way the redhead leans back with a dark satisfaction. “Funny,” she husks, “needling me about being worthless and desperate sure _felt_ fucking personal.”  

Lydia takes a deep, slow breath, and Stiles feels Peter’s hand settle on her shoulder. She tenses, resisting the urge to shake it off. “I understand why you’re angry with me, but all this hostility is uncalled for. That wasn’t about you, and this isn’t how pack is.”

It’s an echo of what the Alpha said to her last night, and it only makes her angrier. She ducks out from under Peter’s hand, rising to her feet. “I wouldn’t know, would I?” she spits, and then she’s leaving, heading towards the little blue guestroom on autopilot.

 _I never asked for any of this_ , she thinks. _I didn’t ask to be an orphan at eighteen, or a Spark, or to have to throw myself on the mercy of strangers who don’t know me, don’t trust me, and don’t care how much they’re asking of me._

 

***

 

She doesn’t know how long passes before she hears a gentle tap at the bedroom door. “Come in,” she mutters, knowing that whichever werewolf it is will hear it. Unless it’s Lydia, in which case, Stiles doesn’t want her to hear it.

But the door opens, and Derek sticks his head in. “Hey.”

It is absolutely not who she expected—although, thinking about it, she doesn’t know who she expected, just that it wasn’t Derek. “Hey. What’s up?” She figures it must be important, for Derek to come find her.

But he just gives her a little smile and asks, “You any good in the kitchen? I’m trying to prep enough lasagne to feed everyone, and it’s a big job for one person.”

She has to fight back tears, because Jesus, when was the last time she cooked? “Yeah, for sure.” She gets up and follows him back downstairs to the kitchen, which is blessedly empty. Even Allison’s gone for the moment. “How far along are you?”

He heads over to the stove, stirring a big pot of Bolognese. “Sauce is just about done, I just need to taste-test it and see if it needs anything else, and the water’s boiling for the pasta, which is over there,” he jerked his chin to the side, and Stiles can see boxes of pasta sheets next to the stove, “and now, there’s the cheese and assembly.”

“I can see why you need the help.” And boy, can she ever. A regular pan of lasagne used to take her a couple hours from start to finish when it was just for her and—“So, what do you need me to do?”

Derek nods towards the island. “I’ve got ricotta and mozzarella, but the mozzarella needs to be grated. Once that’s done, I’ll get your help putting it all together. Oh, and there’s baby spinach in the fridge that needs to be washed, I layer that in, too.”

It’s the spinach, of all things, that makes her smile. “Smart man. I used to make it that way for my, uh. My dad. He used to joke that I was constantly trying to sneak him vegetables, but it’s actually really good that way.”

“It absolutely is. Kale, too, but most of the pack prefers spinach.”

“Huh.” It’s an interesting tidbit, and this is officially nothing like what she’d expected when Derek asked for a hand. As she gets to work grating an entire brick of cheese, she wonders, “Hey, can’t you buy this stuff pre-grated?”

Derek chuckles. “You can, but its drier that way. More expensive, too. And, for those of us with enhanced senses, it never tastes as good as the stuff you buy fresh and grate yourself.”

She makes another considering noise. “I learned something today.”

He turns his head to give her a puzzled look. “You didn’t know that?”

She shrugs, keeping her eyes on the growing pile of shredded cheese under her hands. Wouldn’t wanna cut herself on the grater, safety first, yadda yadda. “I mean. I know you guys had the super senses, but not what that meant in a practical way? Like, yeah, of course you guys have better smell, but I never connected the dots between that and being picky about groceries. I thought Peter was just a snob when Allison insisted on getting that one really expensive brand of pesto, but I’m guessing it was actually something like this?”

He snorts. “Oh no, Peter’s totally a snob about his pesto. But yeah, part of it is because certain preservatives just taste foul to us.” His tone lightens, then. “Not that you’d know it, to see the junk Cora eats, but then, my sister’s opinion on food is that if it’s edible, she’ll eat it.”

It makes her giggle. And it also makes this group of people feel so much more real, more close-knit than she’s seen so far. Derek sounds amused and fond, even when he’s exasperatedly calling his uncle and Alpha a sauce snob. Which says something about this pack, doesn’t it?

She grates on autopilot for a bit as she works up the nerve to say something, and Derek ladles some sauce into the bottom of the waiting pans. He leaves her to it, even though it must be obvious she’s thinking, and she’s grateful. It helps her finally spit out, “Okay, so just—what’s the deal with Lydia? Because to be honest with you man, I do not get her.”

Derek nods, and lays out the first batch of pasta sheets. “Okay, so, before I can really explain Lydia specifically, how much do you know about pack structure and hierarchy?”

She exhales heavily and finishes washing the spinach. “Not much. Like, I know that the Alpha is the head, that they make the big decisions, their word is final, and that they have the power to turn others. I know that most wolves are betas, part of the pack, important members, who follow orders. I know the Alpha can make them obey, push comes to shove.”

“No wonder you’re confused. That’s—I mean, you’ve got the bare bones, but just. There’s so much more to it than that.”

She takes over stirring the next batch of pasta as Derek starts the next layer of lasagne. “I mean, I figured I was missing stuff? Because, shockingly, the internet is not a reliable source of information on werewolves. Not that I didn’t try, but goddamn.”

He huffs. “Okay, so. You’re right, in that most packmates are betas, and that the Alpha is in charge. But, that being said? There are also a number of roles that different packmates can have, that help things work. Not every pack has someone in every role, and sometimes a person can be more than one—the process tends to be organic, people stepping into needed roles that suit them because they’re necessary. It’s not like a politician putting together a cabinet, is what I’m saying.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, remembering Lydia mentioning something about being second. “So what are these roles?”

Derek blows out a long breath. “So, they don't really have set names, what matters is—”

“The job they do,” Stiles finishes.

He nods. “Exactly. For example, the Left Hand. Not every pack has one, though most do. Before the fire, Peter was ours. But it's also referred to as the Shadow, or the Alpha's Blade. And, well, I don't want to make my uncle sound like a hitman, but the Left Hand does the things that aren't totally above-board.”

“Like murder,” she says sardonically, because wow, she was spot-on when she met him and thought _predator_ , wasn't she?

Derek grimaces, taking the cooked pasta sheets she hands him. “When necessary. More often, he traded in information. Underground contacts, spying sometimes. He did favours, so he could call them in later if we needed something.”

“Huh.” She's quiet as she passes him the cheeses and adds fresh pasta to the boiling water. “So who's the Left Hand now?”

He gives her a long look, and right. She's not pack. She ducks her head, about to tell him that it doesn't matter, he doesn't have to tell her when he says, “Right now, we don't have one. Given what went down with the Argents, we're pretty protected at the moment. As the Pack expands, we'll find someone for the job, but not now.”

She nods, grateful, and decides to move on. “And what are the others?”

“I’m guessing you’ve heard about Emissaries?”

“Yeah. Human magic user, attached to a pack, or sometimes unattached but giving help when called upon. They don’t—from what I understand, their primary job is healer? But they handle the magic stuff, which can mean just about anything.”

He smiles at her, and she can’t help but smile back. “Right. Emissaries are sort of jack-of-all-trades types, and they’re one of the most common roles. Almost all packs have an Emissary of their own, or know one they can call on if they need to.”

They pause to work on the lasagne again, and Stiles wonders—what’s his role? “So, um. I get that this is a personal question, but, uh. Do you have a role in the pack?”

He ducks his head, and the tips of his ears go pink. She bites her lip, hard, so she doesn’t coo at him. He’s a bearded scowly giant, he has no business being this goddamn cute. “So, it’s. You probably haven’t heard of this one, but. Denner? It has a lot of names—the Heart, it’s sometimes called Pack Mother, but I don’t need that kind of teasing from Cora.”

A little laugh escapes her. “I bet. So, what’s the job entail?”

His shoulders hunch, and he stares intently at the ricotta he’s spreading. “It’s—in a lot of ways, it’s being a househusband, only for the pack, rather than a spouse. It’s about things like this,” he gestures between them, encompassing the lasagne assembly line, “and raising kids or providing childcare. I don’t. I know I probably won’t do it forever, but I just. I don’t know what I want to do yet, work-wise, and the Hales have always been well-off, and with the insurance payouts, I don’t technically _need_ to work if I don’t want to. And I want to be here for my son or daughter, when they’re born.”

She reaches out, and touches his elbow. When he looks at her, she smiles. “Derek, I think it’s great, what you’re doing. That you want to be here for your baby, especially when they’re young.” It hits her again, that he’s gonna make a great dad, and it hurts a little less, this time. Maybe because it’s not a surprise.

He nods, and brushes her shoulder. “Thanks, Stiles.”

“It’s true, dude. Like, you’re good at this too, educating the noob ‘n all.”

He smirks. “I guess that means I should keep going?”

She nods faux-seriously, and he smirks before continuing. “Another major role is the Alpha's Second, more commonly known as the Right Hand. In our pack, that's Lydia. She prefers the title of Second, though, says that being called the Right Hand is demeaning, and also, that there's a dick joke in there, which is beneath her.”

Stiles chokes on her laughter at that, because as difficult as it is to picture prim, ladylike Lydia saying something like that, she's not _wrong_. Derek grins. “Right? Anyway, the Second acts as a foil for the Alpha. They're an advisor, meant to play devil's advocate, be a voice of reason when the heightened instincts that come with being Alpha are potentially clouding his judgement. She makes him think things through, defend his actions, points out better ways to do things.”

Stiles clenches her jaw briefly. “Okay, and I get that, but I still don’t get why Lydia.”

Derek shrugs, and stirs the sauce again. “She’s the best person for the job, really. She’s not quite as ruthless as Peter, and someone more compassionate might be better in the role, but she’s not a wolf, which means she’s not fighting against the instincts. She can offer him a clear perspective. The fact that she’s literally a genius doesn’t hurt, either.”

She huffs, because that’s not what she meant. “No, I mean. Why interrogate me in front of the Alpha? Why be a bitch to me?”

The smile he gives her is sad. She’s tempted to throw the pasta sheets at him. “Because she was testing you. Lydia knows that our pack is small, and that we’d benefit from new members, but we can’t just take in anyone. She wanted to know what kind of person you are.”

Stiles finds herself incredibly unimpressed with that answer. She can understand how it happened, but it seems so—so _high school_. So needlessly petty. Before she can work through her feelings on that, Derek asks, “So, uh. What did you say to her? Because you clearly impressed her.”

She turns so fast she nearly wipes out. “What?”

He chuckles. “I’m serious. Today, when you came in, she was trying to offer an olive branch. Explain. She’s not used to being on the back foot with someone—it doesn’t happen often. And she wouldn’t make the effort if you didn’t impress her, so. What’d you say?”

Oh God. Well, probably best to just rip the Band-Aid off. “She, uh. Was going on about how I must’ve been desperate, to try here, and that I must’ve thought you were all desperate, if I thought you’d take me in. And I maybe implied that other packs wouldn’t welcome a walking, talking omen of death in their midst? And that I can’t change what I am any more than she can?”

Derek’s mouth falls open and a few spinach leaves drift to the floor. “You didn’t.”

She’s trying not to laugh at his expression. “I did.”

He whistles. “No wonder she likes you. You proved you have backbone. Although—when did she tell you she was a banshee? It’s not something she’s all that open about.”

“The night I showed up here, she dropped her glamour and I just—knew.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Yep. She’d be interested in how you know that, in what talents you have, even if she wasn’t impressed by the fact that you called her out in front of Peter.”

Stiles hums noncommittedly, and thinks that, knowing what she does now, she might invite the redheaded banshee out for coffee. Start over.  

 


	8. time cannot erase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeey. So I know it's been three months since the last update, and sorry about that. Between life being crazy and some outline revision due to plot issues/character conflict, I was stuck on this for a while. But! The words are flowing again, so hopefully the next update can come much faster! 
> 
> Sorry, also, that the first chapter in months is so short. Hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> Happy Friday!

 

Peter looks over everyone staring expectantly at him from the living room couches. He doesn't indulge his more dramatic tendencies, though he's sorely tempted. “Alright. Everyone's here, Stiles is at the _gym_ ,” he ignores the knowing looks he gets when he sneers the word, “and she's been here a couple of weeks now. I want to talk about how you think she's fitting in. Lydia?”

His Second makes a thoughtful face. “Slow, between us, but good overall. We went for coffee, agreed to start over. She's still more guarded with me than she is with the others, I think, but there's progress. Feels sort of like we're circling each other right now, but she offered to help with my dissertation.”

He feels his eyebrows climb his face at that. “Really. Was that just good-natured on her part, or do you think she has the education to be helpful to you?”

Lydia shrugs. “She has an associate's degree, and from what I've seen? She absolutely has the mind for it. It would be smart to plan on sending her back to school in the future.”

Hmm. It's something to think about, certainly, but he puts it aside for now. “I'll be sure to bring it up with her once she's further along in her training. Moon knows she won't ask.” Which, “How are things coming on that front?”

Lydia's lips purse, and her scent sharpens. “Slower than I'd like. I've reached out to my contacts, and the ones that have gotten back to me are skeptical. Stiles wasn't kidding, when she said Sparks are a notoriously insulated group. They don't believe she is one, want proof.”

He rubs his eyes. “And that would require exposing her.”

“Mm.” It's small consolation that Lydia sounds as unimpressed as he feels. “In the meantime, I've gotten my hands on a text I think will help her, I'm just waiting on it to get here.”

Peter wants to curse in frustration. He'd hoped for better news. “Okay. Keep me in the loop.”

She nods, and gives him a look that lets him know she's going to want to talk to him alone later. Until then, however—“Derek. You've probably spent the most time with her of everyone so far. What're your thoughts?”

He shifts uncomfortably at being put on the spot. “I think she's struggling to let herself accept what we're offering. It's not that she doesn't _want_ to be pack, it's that she's still grieving her family, and, well . . .”

Emotion squeezes Peter's lungs. “She's still hurting. Okay. That's—probably to be expected. You think she'll get through it?”

Derek's shoulders hunch and his brows furrow. Peter doesn't rush him. Derek's insight is too valuable for that. Eventually, his mouth pulls to one side and he mutters, “I think it's a lot for her to cope with. Probably too much on her own.”

Peter nods. “Okay. It’s a good thing to keep in mind, that she’ll need our support. Given her history, a referral to Duke might be in order. Thank you, Derek.”

The tension melts out of his nephew's frame at that. He nods towards their Miss Argent. “You have anything to add? She's spent a fair amount of time with you, too.”

She dips her head and pauses for a moment. When she speaks, her words are measured. “She’s more comfortable with me, I think because I'm the only other human in the house. She's impatient to start training, and as much as you'd rather lock her in her room until she's healthy again, Alpha, I get the sense that she feels a little lost. She's not used to stillness, needs to keep busy.”

“Something to keep in mind, then. I'll see if I can come up with something to help occupy her time that won't overtax her.”

Derek hums, leaning back. “She's seemed to enjoy helping me out in the kitchen. Adding her to the cooking roster might help. More importantly, though, she needs to be taught about pack structure and dynamics.”

Peter smiles. “You should talk to her about both of those—I imagine it would go over better, coming from you.” Derek nods, and he looks over at where Cora's lounging next to her wife. “What about you? You've been awfully quiet.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, giving her _what do you think, moron_ expression, and he suddenly regrets teaching her how to do that. It was hilarious when she pulled it on her mother at the tender age of six, but he's not enjoying having it directed at him now.

He waits her out, and she gives an irritated sigh. “I told you I thought she'd fit with us, and I stand by that. But with my job, I haven't been around her much. And, either way, you know you need to tell Laura.”

He resists the urge to snarl, dropping his face into his hand. “Yes, thank you, I am aware.”

Surprisingly, it's Derek who says, “Look, it's your decision either way, but since she's still pack, she needs to know. And it's not like hiding it from her is going to end well.”

“True enough.” And it is, really. “Alright, I'll go call her now, I suppose, rip the Band-Aid off. Thank you all for your input.”

Lydia gets up and follows him into his office, curling up in her usual seat. “I'm not calling my darling niece with an audience, thank you.”

She doesn't respond to his snappishness. “I know, and I know you know we're all here if you need us after that phone call. This is about Stiles.”

He sits and sighs, more than willing to put off the phone call he needs to make. “Well, hit me with it.”

“Have you talked to Marin?”

He's momentarily thrown by the non-sequitur. “About what?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Helping with Stiles's training. She's a druid, so the match-up isn't going to be perfect, but she can teach Stiles some of the basics. Maybe even enough for a demonstration to my other contacts, when she needs more advanced training.”

He sits back, mulling that over. It's not a terrible idea, but there's no telling whether or not Marin will play along, which is the catch. “Call her and ask.” He huffs at the raised eyebrow he gets. “You're her point person, and all of this needs to go through you.”

She tops her head in acknowledgement, but looks troubled. “I mean, technically that's true, but isn't that really more an Emissary's duty?”

“It is,” because she's right, “but we haven't had one since the fire, and as the only non-wolf, you've been stepping in when required.”

“I don't like it.”

“I know, and neither do I. Frankly, you have enough on your plate. But until Stiles is trained enough to take over, you're the best person we have for the job.”

Lydia presses her lips together, unhappy, but nods. “I'll call Marin. You call the she-devil.” With that, she gets up and heads for the door.

“That’s an insult to she-devils,” he grumbles. Her chuckle as she closes the door behind her doesn't help his mood. But she's right, in that putting it off won't help matters.

Even if he wants to talk Laura about as much as he wants to take a wolfsbane bullet to the thigh.

But he grits his teeth and taps her contact number in his phone, because being the Alpha is a shitty job sometimes. The call connects, and before he can speak, hears, “What’s wrong?”

It rubs him the wrong way, but he tries not to show it. “I can’t call you unless there’s a problem?”

She snorts. “You don’t make social calls. Not to me, anyway, but then, I’ve never been your favourite.”

He ignores the jab. “I was calling about the upcoming full moon. I was h—”

“Yes, I’ll be there. Jesus, that was one time,” she interrupts.

“I’m glad to hear that, since we have a potential packmate for you to meet.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then, “You’re joking, right?”

Peter will let a lot slide in the name of keeping the peace with her, but not this. “No, and I don’t like your tone.”

But of course she digs her heels in. “Oh, I’m so sorry, _Alpha_. It’s only that I deserve to be asked, rather than informed, that’s all,” she snaps, every word loaded with sarcasm.

“ _Enough_ ,” Peter growls, and he knows his eyes are red, that he’s shifting in response to being so blatantly disrespected. “Drop the attitude, Laura. You’re meant to be a woman grown, you could try acting like it.” She tries to interrupt, but he speaks over her. “And clean the shit out of your ears. I told you we have a potential packmate for you to meet. She hasn’t been integrated yet, and is still getting to know everyone. This was a courtesy call so you don’t show up for the run and wonder who the new girl is.”

She scoffs. “I mean, I appreciate the gesture, but I think we both know that you’re not really interested in my opinion. You’re going to make whatever the hell decision you want about her, regardless of what I think.”

“As the Alpha, I have that right,” he reminds her, voice silky soft and dangerous. “However, you’ll notice that I’m having her meet every pack member, including the ones who only show up once every 28 days, to seek their input. Which I do not _have_ to do, but have chosen to do anyway, because I value harmony and unity within my pack.”

“Yeah. Your pack.”

He doesn’t bother to address that—won’t give her the satisfaction. “So I will see you Thursday night, and I expect you to keep a civil tongue and an open mind when you meet Stiles.”

He hangs up, then, and takes a few minutes to breathe and let his claws slide out slowly before retracting them, and then does it again. It helps, soothes his instincts and lets him regain control. Even after all these years, there’s nothing that sets him off like Talia’s oldest daughter. He’d hoped, back when this all started, that they could come to an understanding and work something out, but ten years later, all he gets from her is bitterness and disrespect.

He wonders if maybe Lydia’s right, and he should set her free. Let her seek a place in another pack. He’s considered it, but ultimately, he knows that she’d never leave, because she doesn’t want to.

It’s unfortunate he can’t give her the one thing she _does_ want.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently working on half a dozen long projects, and in an effort to keep motivated, I started posting this one. This is a departure from my usual--normally I don't start posting chaptered works until they're done or nearly so, but that method has me sitting on a hoard of words like a fic dragon, and it's driving me nuts. So I'm sorry I don't have a posting schedule this time, but fingers crossed that updates can be frequent even if they're not regular. 
> 
> Title for this fic (and the chapter titles to come) are from Evanescence's Synthesis album, which has been writing fuel like WHOA for this fic. 
> 
> Feel free to come scream with me about this--or any of my other projects, if you're interested--on my Tumblr, which is [here](https://www.queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/). I'm especially susceptible to rambling about the musical inspiration for this fic. Or, if you're abandoning the sinking ship that is Tumblr, but still wanna ask me about this fic, feel free to shoot me an email at the address listed on my profile.


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